The Witness
by leeeel
Summary: Attorney-at-law Rick Grimes agrees to help an old friend, Michonne Moretti, who is the sole witness to a brutal murder. However, coming to her rescue proves to be more difficult than he'd anticipated as they share an unresolved past. Can they work together despite their trust issues when it becomes evident that Michonne's life is now also in danger?
1. Prologue

**_AN:_** Sigh! It's me again. Peeping out with a new story. I know I have other obligations, but when inspiration hits, yuh just have to go with the flow. Yuh understand? So this is what I've been up to. This story is actually inspired by real events that recently happened in my life and in the lives of others I'm close to. I love you all for indulging me. Please enjoy these this Prologue and Chapter 1.

 ** _Transcript_**

April 2, 2018

TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDED INTERVIEW

WITH MICHONNE MORETTI

8:53 AM—recording starts

THPD DET. SIMON HAWKER

 **Hawker:** Alright. Think we got this thing rolling. Wait...yep **,** we are good to go. Let's begin, shall we Miss Moretti? [No response]

 **Hawker:** Ma'am **,** I'll need for you to speak up. You are here of your own accord, aren't you?

 **Moretti:** Yes. I am.

 **Hawker:** Good. That's better. Now, Trinity Hills has seen a number of break-ins these past few months, and so although, you and I have already spoken, why don't you go ahead and repeat the events of your morning. This recording will help us to keep the facts straight and sift out any similarities with the other victims.

 **Moretti:** Sure. Okay.

 **Hawker:** Terrific. Where were you this morning?

 **Moretti:** At my mother's house. I got up and left around 6:30.

 **Hawker:** And she lives out in Burkeside too?

 **Moretti:** Yes. Wilson street. I spent the weekend there.

 **Hawker:** With just her?

 **Moretti:** My sisters live there too. With my niece and my nephew.

 **Hawker:** Full house. How nice. My brother and his wife still live out at my parents' place too. But that's down in Macon so I haven't been in awhile. Plus, my brother's a real jerk, you know what I mean. My folks though, they are getting old. I should make the effort, go visit the geezers, shouldn't I?

 **Moretti:** …Mmhm.

 **Hawker:** I'm just saying I could relate...sort of. [No response]

 **Hawker:** Okay alright, not much for easy conversation are yuh? Well umm, where were we? Oh yeah that's right, you left Wilson street at around 6:30. Was anyone else up to see you leave?

 **Moretti:** My mother. She walked me to my car.

 **Hawker:** Then what?

 **Moretti:** Then I drove to Tasty Delights, grabbed breakfast and—

 **Hawker:** On a holiday?

 **Moretti:** …Yeah. They're usually open year-round, six days a week.

 **Hawker:** They any good? What kind of food do they serve?

 **Moretti:** Caribbean. Mainly dishes from Trinidad.

 **Hawker:** Oh yeah, that's the good stuff. What did you get? No wait, let me guess. Some pie? Vegetables?

 **Moretti:** You're not serious, are you?

 **Hawker:** [Clears throat] Let's, let's skip that part. So you drove straight home after that, and when you got out of the car you noticed something was off. Correct?

 **Moretti:** My plants on the balcony of my front porch, one of the pots had fallen and smashed in the yard.

 **Hawker:** Could've been the wind.

 **Moretti:** Yeah, but I thought why one? And why not on the porch itself? Seemed strange. Then I, I came up to my front door and found it unlocked. That's not something I usually forget.

 **Hawker:** You said that no one else has a key? You live alone?

 **Moretti:** I do. So I knew. When I pushed it open, went in through the doorway immediately I saw everything was just...everywhere. My home had been violated.

 **Hawker:** Must've been a shock. Usually is. Did you go through the entire house?

 **Moretti:** No. I ran back out. Called 911. Waited in my car till the first officer arrived.

 **Hawker:** Yes, let's see. I have that here. Officer Bernard was the first to respond after your call came through at about 6:57 a.m. He said he found you locked inside your car. You wouldn't come out. So he went into your house to do a check, made sure that no one was still there. Found the point of entry, a broken window to the western side of the house. Then when he got to your room, he saw something…interesting. Convinced you to come in so that he could show it to you. What was it?

 **Moretti:** Graffiti. 'U19' spray painted on my bedroom wall, in black.

 **Hawker:** When you gave your statement last week, Miss Moretti, about that murder victim, you identified the perpetrator as being…wait, let me get it straight. I have your report right here, don't want to misquote you. Yes, you said the attacker was, ' _possibly a Latino man, young between 20 to 30 years of age, six feet, dark eyes, dark clothes, low haircut and with a distinctive U19 tattooed at the back of his skull'._ Did I get it all correct?

 **Moretti:** Yes.

 **Hawker:** And now, that same tattoo is scrawled across your wallpaper.

 **Moretti:** Yes.

 **Hawker:** That's um, quite mysterious isn't it? Do you any ideas, or theories on how that's possible?

 **Moretti:** I think that's your job to figure out, Detective.

 **Hawker:** Yes. Yes it is. You know what else is my job, Miss Moretti? Finding other eye witnesses to a murder that took place in broad daylight on the busiest streets of Burkeside. But you know we haven't been able to do that. It's a conundrum but not one other person could place a man fitting this description of yours from the attack last Tuesday. Not one.

 **Moretti:** What? But I told you-

 **Hawker:** Oh, and another thing that's been puzzling me…your car. You said in your first report that you left it at work, in the parking lot of St. Monica's High school? That's the one downtown?

 **Moretti:** Since 1972.

 **Hawker:** You own a 2010 BMW 3 series coupe, am I right? That's a sweet ride. You know I always wanted to get myself a Bimmer. How much did that set you back, huh? On a School librarian's salary? Must've been a pretty penny?

 **Moretti:** Was a gift.

 **Hawker:** Oh, I see. How lovely. It's in good condition?

 **Moretti:** Perfect.

 **Hawker:** No leakages. No squeaking. No sputtering. Works just fine?

 **Moretti:** Yes.

 **Hawker:** Damn good mechanic huh? [No response.]

 **Hawker:** Listen, don't give me that look, just answer the question.

 **Moretti:** Which is what exactly?

 **Hawker:** Why is it did you decide that on that day, of all days, to leave your BMW, which works perfectly fine, all the way downtown?

 **Moretti:** I wanted to take the bus.

 **Hawker:** Oh really?

 **Moretti:** Really. What exactly is it that you want to know, Detective? I didn't come down here for this.

 **Hawker:** You think you're so smart, don't you?

 **Moretti:** I think that you're wasting my time. That _this_ has nothing to do with my house being broken into.

 **Hawker:** Oh no? Come on Miss Moretti, be real. Are you that… _unfortunate_? You say you didn't know the victim? Who she was?

 **Moretti:** I didn't.

 **Hawker:** Then try explaining to me how is it that not two minutes before the attack, you had a meeting with a Miss Rosita Espinosa, the victim's own sister?

 **Moretti:** I didn't _know_ she was her sister. Not until she showed up here at the station. This is ridiculous. What are you trying to insinuate? Is this the part where I say, "Please officer I need to make phone call?"

 **Hawker:** That's entirely up to you, Miss Moretti. After all we're just uh, chit chatting.

 **Moretti:** Yeah well, the chit chat's over. I'd like to invoke my sixth amendment. Now. [No response]

 **Moretti:** I. Said. Now.

9:13 AM—recording stops.


	2. Chapter 1

**_PART 1:_**

 _ **Chapter**_

 _ **One**_

 _RICK_

Hot showers are damned hypnotic. On full blast, it doesn't take me too long to lose myself under the steaming spray of water.

Standing here, with my eyes closed, feeling the hot liquid hit the top of my head, before running down my face, my neck and my back, loosens my muscles just enough for the blood to flow. The pounding in my temples cut down to a more or less tolerable level, and my skull no longer feels like it's about to explode.

Thank God.

Wish I could stay in this bath for a full hour. This is almost as good as a palm full of Vicodin.

Almost.

But after fifteen minutes, I step out of my therapeutic shower, grab my towel and wrap it around my waist. If I'm going to make it through the entire day, I'm gonna need a dosage of something. Maybe two, or three, fifty mgs of Demerol, and a double shot of espresso flowing through my veins.

"Hey, Dad."

My hand pauses as I reach out for the medicine cabinet. "I'll be out in a minute Carl."

"Yeah, okay… Should I wear my blue or black tie with the new shirt Mom sent me?"

Which part of a minute does the boy not understand? "Neither. Just grab your jacket. Still chilly out there." The sound of my own voice above a whisper sends a blinding spike through my brain and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to bear it.

 _'Dammit.'_

Serves me right for all those Margaritas I guzzled like a knucklehead frat boy last night.

However, Abraham, my partner…no scratch that...my boss, at Ford and Sons Law group, had the tab running and he needed a friend. I couldn't say no. The man helped me start over by, not only giving me a chance in his law firm, but also by opening himself up, showing me love, embracing me like a brother. He's good people. So when he called and asked if I could meet him at Sorrento's, I said yes.

It took twice the amount of alcohol I'd consumed for him to get a decent buzz, and frankly, he deserved to. Third kid's on the way, and well the man, he's in a tizzy. Thinks he's got enough on his plate. While his wife, Sasha, is downright ecstatic because she hopes it's Abe junior, finally, and not another girl for both of their sakes.

Personally, I don't think Abe has any rights to complain. His home is intact, the love he shares with his wife is going strong, his babies adore him. Not everybody, (very few people actually), could attest to that. I sure as hell can't.

 _'Oh Jesus…and here we go again.'_

My headache is making a hell of a come back.

I yank open the medicine cabinet. Where is that bloody aspirin?

"But the blue, Dad, " Carl, who also makes a come back, shouts unforgivingly through the door, "you know is my favorite."

One hand grips the edge of the sink and the other pinches my nose bridge. "Well alright, why ask me then?"

"Because," he says, as though that's an actual answer.

Hmph. Teenagers. I swear that's his response for every question since he turned thirteen.

 _'Carl, why didn't you do the dishes?'_

 _'Because.'_

 _'Carl, look at this phone bill. Why is it so high?'_

 _'Because.'_

God damn kid gets away with it too. I always let him, don't I?

"Anyways," he says, "you better hurry up. It's nine-thirty and Grandma is dressed and waiting in the kitchen already. You know she hates being late for Pastor Stokes."

"Yeah, I know. Five minutes is all I need." Or maybe more. Might run into _her_ at the service today. Maybe she'll say hi. That'll be nice.

On the second shelf inside of the metal cabinet, my fingers inspect the little white and orange plastic containers, my eyes skim the labels as to their contents, searching out my source of relief. Tucked in the corner, a green capped bottle catches my attention. The black letters, bold yet small, read 'Active Health Teen.' Supplements? I forgot about these.

Carl came home with those tablets after his stay with his mother during the Christmas break. Lori sent an email insisting that as a growing teen he needed additional vitamins, as though that boy is suffering from some sort of deficiency. Sprouting like a damned beanstalk, he eats any and everything, fresh or stale, dead or alive, it don't matter to him. He hardly gets sick, his grades are all aces. In other words, I'm doing a hell-of-a job at raising my son, if I do say so myself. He doesn't need this. The sealed bottle gets tossed in the garbage.

A second later, I find what I had been looking for.

Or have I?

After scrutinizing the familiar receptacle, I discover that I am wrong.

Exelon. I shake my head and sigh. These should not be up here, but downstairs inside the kitchen's center cupboard where they belong.

 _'Oh, Mom.'_

This is the third time, in what? One week? Less than?

Doctor Carson, seems he was right. He did try to warn me. Said that despite her taking this medication my mother's condition would definitely worsen, and possibly at a more rapid speed. I've found her things in the oddest of places. Just last night, inside the fridge I came across both her house keys and her glasses.

Well, this just confirms it. Moving back home to be her support had been the right call.

My whole life she's been my rock. On her own, Deanna Grimes took care of me and protected me, made sure I would grow up to become the type of man who fights against the injustices of this world. And now it's my turn, my duty, my honor to return the favor.

At nine-fifty the wooden flooring creaks under my two-toned, dark brown dress shoes as I trot into the kitchen for my caffeine fix before we hit the road.

"Oh Rick, look," My mother sees me, scoots around the center island and shoves a note pad into my hands. "I just got a call." Her forehead crinkles in confusion.

Is everything alright? Why does she seem panicked? "Mom, what's the matter?"

"It's Michonne. Something has happened."

Michonne? _My_ Michonne?

 _'Wait, no, she's not yours Rick. Never been.'_

I glance down at my mother's scribbled handwriting. "Detective Hawker? A home invasion?" On Easter Monday? Lord, what is this city coming to?

"Yes, poor girl." My mother grips my hand. "She's been through so much, you have to help her. She says something is not right."

"Is she okay?" Was she robbed? Did she get hurt?

"I don't know Rick, but they've been questioning her again about that woman who died last week, and they won't tell her why. I know you two aren't close, like you used to be, but…"

But nothing. "Where is she?"

"Already down at the station."

"I'll swing by. See what I can I do." Grabbing up my keys, the irony isn't lost on me. This woman who had just sauntered through my mind, is waiting for my help.

My Mom and I hug, and after apologizing to my son for the interruption of our day's plans, I haul myself over to Trinity Hills Police Department.

Just ten miles away from my home in Burkeside, with little to no traffic, it takes me fifteen minutes to get there.

The scent of burnt coffee and the dull buzz of slow activity, greet me as I waltz through the metal double doors. The low-slung brick building that houses Trinity Hills' only precinct since 1952, is located in the city's central district. Also known as, the "law and order" district. The police station, along with City hall, are situated on Queen's Falls circular. A block away there's the Municipal court, and the connecting streets are littered with attorneys offices, private investigators, bail bonds agencies, and one or two pawn shops.

My own office is over on Lincoln road, a mere three blocks away. We're a good firm with an impeccable reputation, known for being the best damned criminal defense lawyers because we won't think twice about exploiting every single avenue no matter what, as long as it means serving the best interests of our clients. That's the job of _any_ lawyer. But me and my associates – Counsellors Maggie Rhee, Abraham Ford, our investigator Daryl Dixon, and our administrative assistant Tara Chambler Aka 'Boss Lady'– we go hard for the win. It's the only way we know how to practice law out here in Trinity Hills Georgia no matter what the case is.

From misdemeanors, and personal injury, and student defenses, to DUIs, felonies, and drug cases. Domestic violence? You can call us for that. Your good ole assault and battery? We cover those too. And that's just a handful of the services we provide, but I won't go into all of that. You need a reference, feel free to contact the hundreds of satisfied clients we've assisted clear across Cobb County.

The desk Sergeant, a tiny Asian woman with a mean mug and a sharp voice, is not too happy by my sudden appearance. Being forced to work on a holiday is never any fun. So, on goes the charm.

"Hey." I dip my gaze, lick my lips, and flash a killer grin and…nothing.

"What the hell do you want?" Her tiny arms lock across her chest.

I lean in. "Heard you had a Michonne Moretti brought in this morning. Care to share why exactly she's still here?" I bite my lower lip, give her a wink and…

"Don't be an ass," she spits out. "State your name and purpose."

Nothing? Really?

No blush, no giggle, no _nothing_. I try again to expertly inquire of the details surrounding Michonne's situation, but still I don't get a slip, or a nugget of useful information. Damn. I must be losing my touch. Huh. I mean I got my best blue suit on and everything. Crisp white shirt, silk black tie. I'm dressed for the Lord so I know I look good.

After rolling her eyes at me a few times, I quit. 'BAILEY,' as her name tag reads, finally summons Detective Simon Hawker, who comes trotting down the stairwell a minute later.

The department is staffed by 137 officers. Most of whom I've already gotten familiar with. But _this_ one…this one right here, is an idiot and an A-class jerk. Often times Abe likes to call him 'Simple Simon.'

Still, I extend my hand to him. "Detective."

He gives me a quick shake while his jaw churns a gum in his mouth. "Counsellor. You here for Moretti?"

"I am. Got a call. Care to tell me what's this all about?"

His shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. "Can't. Sorry."

"Come on now Simon. Victim of a home invasion, witness to a murder…she's not a suspect is she?" If he doesn't let me in on why they're holding her, then they're building a case against her. "As a measure of good faith show me something, and I'll convince Miss Moretti to work with you. Be more cooperative." Which is a bold faced lie. The less the cops know the less they have to incriminate my client. But I'm in his house so for now I play the game. "If not, well my client and I are walking right out of here without saying another word. And come tomorrow, who knows? I'll probably be compelled to go right ahead and file a harassment suit."

"Bullshit. She came in on her own volition."

I shrug. "I don't know… Interrogation without counsel? Sounds like harassment to me."

He spreads his lips into a wide malicious grin. "Why you gotta be so aggressive, Rick? Can't we all just, get along?" Leading me to his desk, he grabs up a brown envelope, opens it, and empties it's contents out. It's a stack of professional photos of the crime scene.

"The place was tossed alright, but nothing was taken. Not even a stick of gum."

Tossed is an understatement. Michonne's home had been properly violated. "Where's this?" I hold up a picture with graffiti on the wall.

"That's in your client's boudoir."

What in the world is a gang sign doing on Michonne's wall? If my memory serves me right, the U19 is an extremely dangerous street gang based out of the inner city of Atlanta.

"Oh, and then there's a little video of the crime last week."

Video? That's right Simple Simon, keep on talking.

It turned out that the cops had gotten their hands on some footage from the back entrance of Dee's pharmacy, which shows Michonne conversing with the murder victim. He says Michonne never mentioned talking to Miss Espinosa before she succumbed to her injuries.

"So, leaves me wondering why and what else is she not telling us." He rests against the edge of his desk, crosses his ankles, and sickening lines of smugness curve his face.

"That's it?" I ask, incredulous that this 'detective' actually thinks he's got something to work with.

"Oh no sir, Mr. Lawyer sir," he laughs. "But that's all you're getting. Let's just say obstruction of justice is looking pretty good for your girl if she doesn't start coughing it up. The whole story, that is."

I have a pretty cordial relationship with these detectives, but it don't mean I trust their judgement… not by a long shot. Commissioned to protect and serve 80,000 residents, these officers are overworked, underpaid, some downright hate the job so they've become both belligerent and lazy, looking for a quick win.

"She's a school librarian for Pete's sakes!" I argue.

"That don't mean squat."

I step back, away from him, tamping down my ire. "Just take me in to my client. I want to see her now."

* * *

A few minutes later, I got them to bring Michonne to a private room. Wasn't going to take any chances on some wise guy pressing a button in that interrogation hole, violating my client's sixth amendment.

As soon as she steps through the door, it hits me…Hard. I haven't sat and had a real conversation, of any kind with this woman in fifteen years.

Not even since I'd moved back home after my divorce well over eighteen months ago.

From time to time sure, we'd bump into each other. After all, we do live in the same neighborhood with her new house over on Joyeau street being eight blocks away. Not to mention, both she and my mother belong to First Ministry Baptist Church where they regularly congregate. Michonne and I would exchange a polite nod of acknowledgement whenever I decide to make the effort to show up for a service. But other than that...

Our interactions have been brief and cordial at best.

At worst? Well, she won't ever come on out and admit this, and I won't ever put her on the spot about it, but I have seen this woman literally duck behind a fruit display at the Eastern Value food market when she glimpsed me strolling her way.

It was kind of funny, but mostly not. How things were before, compared to how things are now, it honestly puts a crack in my heart.

Seated now across from me, Michonne does not slouch down into her chair. Rather, her posture is confident, her head held high, her stare so intense, she practically looks regal. I swallow hard. Michonne has matured into a stunning woman, and I am reminded of that fact every time I lay my eyes on her.

Dressed in a simple, fitted gold sweater top and slim dark jeans, her hair swooped back in an intricate chignon, she gives no sign of being anxious. Anyone held in a dinky interrogation chamber for unwarranted questioning is bound to be a nervous wreck.

But not her.

She hides her stress well.

I marvel at how she's changed so much, and yet, so little. Unlike me, not a speck of grey could be found in her long locs, despite the hardships I know she's endured throughout her thirty-eight years of life.

When we first met, she was an awkward fourteen year old. Skinny, sure, but then again so was I despite being two years her senior. She was cute, a bit nerdy, but also very grown up for her age. Being the eldest of four in a single parent home would do that to you. Her eyes though, were always her best asset: Keen and accepting, with the extraordinary ability to penetrate and infiltrate my soul.

Those brown eyes darken now as she shoots me a look that says, ' _There you are, you jackass. What took you so long?'_

Wow. It has been years since I'd last seen that look. The old memory sure as hell elicits a wide smile I can't hold back. "Good morning to you too, Michonne. Surprised you even called."

"Why?" she shrugs, "You're a lawyer. I need a lawyer. Makes perfect sense. Besides, Viola Davis wasn't picking up."

"Of course," I laugh. She's so direct. But knowing her since high school we have a good amount of baggage.

"How much?" she asks.

I blink at her. She's a mind reader now? "How much what?"

"Your retainer fee."

Oh! "We don't have to talk about that this instant—"

She cuts me off with a loaded sigh. "You're not doing me any favors, Rick."

"The detectives," I say, as I shrug off my jacket (and her), "are suspicious of you for obstruction of justice. Let's start there. You have any idea why?"

Her eyes widened. "My place was trashed!"

And then some. "Well according to the photos taken, looks like your place was searched, but nothing is missing..." I pause. She doesn't confirm or deny that statement. Why? I shake my head and continue. "There's also some video."

"A video?"

"Streetcam footage that day of the murder."

"There is? That's great," she says. "I had nothing to do with that girl getting killed. I just happened to be there. You know that."

Other than being all over the local news, my mother relayed the details of Michonne's tragic experience multiple times. "Yes well, the video doesn't show the actual stabbing, that happened out of shot. What they do have is afterwards, with the victim bleeding out and you conversing with her." I would have to pull some strings, maybe get Daryl to convince the pharmacy's manager to give us a copy for my own analysis.

"Really? That's it?" Skeptical, she rolls her eyes, "So, that invalidates the fact that my home was invaded and ransacked? I was trying for her to hold on. So, I kept talking. I told the detectives everything that they needed to know. Right now, I have to leave."

 _'Everything that they needed to know.'_ What does that mean? Her words give me a pause for concern.

My eyes peruse her demeanor for a hint of deceit. Her arms fold and she looks away. "They can hold you here, Michonne, for further questioning if they want to. Up to 24 hours without you being charged. But I'm here, so don't worry I won't allow that. They have no probable cause to suspect you of anything." I then recite the mandatory attorney-client speech as l retrieve my pen and legal pad, (yes, still old school, thank you very much), from my satchel.

"First off, tell me precisely what the police have in their report about the murder last week that might lead them to think you're not giving the whole story." I click my pen and start to write. "Don't leave anything out. Even if you think it's insignificant, it might not be."

Something Michonne had said to the detectives during her interviews had raised their suspicions. Most times witnesses are unaware of the little details that could make or break an investigation. Would I be able to figure it out? Determine what's colored the cops' perception of the case, other than the aesthetics? Also, my carefully worded statement gave me leeway. The cops might think one thing, whereas I could, without violating any ethical rules, guide Michonne to say another, whilst on the stand.

"Yeah, okay. During my lunch break," she says, staring at my notepad, "I—I was hustling back to work after finishing an errand at FTB bank. The one on 1st avenue and Edward street."

"Just on the outskirts of Burkeside?"

"Yes. Had an appointment with my loans officer. But I was running late in getting back to school. I thought I may not make it in time to catch the D13 bus heading downtown unless I take a short cut. So, instead of making a left, I turned right, and as soon as I turned right again, onto Riley street, I saw her coming towards me from the opposite direction."

"You mean Annabella Espinosa?"

"Who else?" she snaps.

My hand stilled and I don't look up from my notes. She's been through a lot, I tell myself. She's frustrated and on edge. I give her a second.

"I'm sorry," she sighs, and continues, "Yes, Annabella Espinosa. Actually, she distracted me from my focus of racing back to St. Monica's. I noticed that she was beautiful. Young. Blessed with thick, luxurious dark hair cascading around her heart shaped face and full cheeks, long enviable lashes, and flawless cappuccino skin. Her expression, however…that's what really grabbed my attention."

"Why was that?"

"She seemed troubled. Sad. Lonely. I could relate. Remembered what that was like."

How could she forget? After attending St. John's University in New York, Michonne moved to Brooklyn, met someone and got married. Like me, after a few years she also started a family. Seven years ago, however, tragedy struck and she lost it all. To help her cope, she'd moved back to Georgia.

"Seconds after she rushed past me, I heard a voice yell, "Hey!" I spun around just in time to catch sight of someone else bolting around the corner. A man. Tall, intimidating, and with an inhuman look in his eyes. The girl, she yelled back at him. Told him to get away from her...sounded like she knew him. Then something glinted in my eye. I swear, everything stood still in that moment and it took me a good 10 seconds to register what was happening."

Michonne pressed her eyes closed, allowing her façade to break for a moment. "She was on the ground screaming in pain, and I screamed out in horror as this man right before my eyes attacked her with a knife. Over and over again. It was insane. I watched him stab her in her chest, her arm…Her neck was gutted wide open…God, Rick! It was a nightmare."

Damn. Nightmare is putting it lightly. "What happened after that?"

"I don't know," she shook her head, "I—I'm not sure. I kept thinking, "This isn't real. This can't be real." But somehow my legs took me closer and I pushed him off of her, yelling that I had already called the police. Which I hadn't. He said "Bitch!" spat at my shoes, then took off running."

I want to press her for more details, but as she swipes away the tears that had begun to fall, I decided against it. I rest my pen down. "Have they given you the contact information for counselling?"

"No I...I don't need that. I'm fine."

Yet, her struggle to stop trembling is perceptible.

The move of my hand to cover hers, to steady the shaking, is instinctive. Minutes ago, Michonne strutted in here with her confident, badass, _don't try to shit me_ game face on. Now, with her tortured expression all I see is my sixteen-year-old best friend. And just like that, I'm eighteen again.

When we were teenagers, Michonne and I would often meet up in the afternoons after school. Sometimes with a group of other kids, but most times it was just us two. Preferring to walk home, we'd ditch the bus, indulge in a detour and end up hanging out at one of our favorite spots: Wendy's on Preston Boulevard, that skate park over on Daytona road, or our ultimate secret place, my mother's cabin out on Lake Woodson. The lake took us the furthest away from our neighborhood, but after enduring a horrible, terrible day, the extra miles to enjoy the paradisiac setting were worth it.

I remember those hours we'd lie side by side in the grass, or on the dock, having hardcore debates on everything from movies and music to worldviews and politics. Even poetry. I was strictly a Wordsworth man, but she favored variety. Had a book filled with personal favorites from Claude Mckay and e.e. cummings and Maya Angelou. And even a few from the suicidal woman Anne Sexton.

At other times, when life felt like a bucket of shit, we'd hardly talk at all. Just kept each other company, quietly exchanging our personal secrets whilst enjoying Trinity hills' breathtaking sunsets.

That…that was a lifetime ago.

Now, drawing in a deep breath, my ex-best friend closes her eyes and pulls her hand away.

"Can we leave?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

I collect my belongings and rise to my feet. "Sure, let me just uh…let me get Detective Hawker. Then I'll take you wherever you want to go, if you'll let me. You have some place to crash tonight?"

She slides off her seat. "Take me to Shane's house. I could stay with him."

Well goddamn. A big ole boulder plunges to the pit of my stomach. I try like hell to keep my face neutral, but she reads me in a heartbeat.

"Is that going to be a problem?"

My eyes squint at her. _'Yes.'_

"No. Like I said, wherever you wanna go." Even if that means delivering her into the arms of the man who strung her along on a three-year engagement only to dump her like garbage a month before the wedding.

In her state of vulnerability, would that be the wisest choice? I shake my head, grab my bag. Who was I kidding? Michonne's personal life was none of my goddamned business. Not anymore. She made sure of that.

At this point, she's just my client. We are no longer friends and we hadn't been anything close to acquaintances in over ten years. I need to remember that. Me, helping her out now, isn't going to change that fact. And honestly, I prefer it this way. I do.

Despite all of my fond memories of Michonne Moretti, there is a reason we don't talk anymore. She's rigid, judgmental, unforgiving and damned complicated.

So…

Why on earth, am I pulling her right into my arms?

 _'Because she's letting you. And because she's been through a lot._

 _And because..._

 _Because you still love her, you idiot.'_


	3. Chapter 2

_**AN:**_ Okay, so excited you guys are jumping in on this ride with me. I am taking much liberties with this story, so bear with me and my crazy imagination. I hope everyone had a great weekend. Please enjoy the lengthy update!

 _ **Chapter**_

 ** _Two_**

 _MICHONNE_

Warm lips exploring my abdomen draw me out from a deep death-like sleep. Through my hazy vision, I instantly recognize the gauzy chandelier hanging from the ornate ceiling and immediately I am flooded with regret.

"What time is it?" I ask, shifting away from those lips. But a determined forearm locks me into place.

"Last I checked," replies the voice belonging to that arm from underneath the covers, "just about six-thirty."

The kisses start drifting lower.

"Shane, stop." Throwing off the comforter, my hands tug his face upwards to meet my eyes.

"What's the matter?"

I pry myself out from his grip, dragging the sheet with me as I roll out of his bed. "Thank you, for letting me crash here yesterday. This...Us...We shouldn't have. I shouldn't have."

Groaning, he turns and drops himself back onto the satin pillows. His hand drags over his face as he swears, "Oh sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You have got to be kidding me."

I roll my eyes, making deft movements to collect my clothes. I know what's coming. As per usual, he's about to explode.

"Michonne. You can't keep doing this to me. Something goes bad, you show up here, we get into it and then you bolt for the door."

He's right. I won't deny it. This is the third time I've done this since we've ended our engagement. I've developed a twisted pattern of seeking him out whenever I have a crisis, big or small.

And yesterday was both big _and_ small.

Whilst sliding on my pants I shoot a quick glance across at him. He's sitting upright now, the gold chain and angel pendant I surprised him with last year, rests against his impressive, well-toned, bronzed chest beckoning me. A reminder of why I keep coming back.

With a deep intake of air, I focus on the task at hand: Getting the hell out of there.

"Where do you think you're going?" he says. "You can stay. I have no problem with that."

"I know. And I'm sorry." Though I loathe to admit it, the recent events in my life are taking a toll. I am fighting tooth and nail not to spiral into a state of panic so, I just—I just needed something. Someone. I needed comfort. And Shane...God forgive me I'm so embarrassed...but Shane is always willing. We were only supposed to talk, but from the moment I came over I hardly said much of anything.

Showing up at his house, uninvited, was a much better option than running to my mother's in any case. The last thing I want is to go crying on her shoulders, burdening her further with my problems. I am a grown woman afterall. I'm supposed to be responsible for myself, handle my own affairs. Been doing just that ever since I hit my teens.

"Sorry?" Biting his bottom lip Shane laughs in a ' _Are you shitting me?'_ kind of way. "Babe, it's been three months. We were supposed to be married by now. What are you doing? You said you wanted space. I gave you your space. Hell I even took the fall. I became the bad guy in town and that's all on you. But I told myself, "Shane ole boy, you know what? That's okay, because she's coming back to you buddy. She has to. You've been so good at taking care of her, not getting back together is ludicrous. Not to mention for four years you behaved like a gentleman, remained absolutely faithful."

 _'What the—'_

My hands jerk down my sweater from over my head. "You're supposed to!"

"Woman you know me. You know how I used to do. But I changed. Except...it ain't enough. You're just playing me. And I am such a world class fool."

Oh god, help me. "No, you're not."

"Yes, I am. I truly am." His arms lock across his chest.

With an exaggerated sigh, I step back over to the bed plopping down next to him. My palm rubs the top of his newly shaved head. "Shane. No."

 _'You're just in-love with the wrong damn woman and too prideful to admit it.'_

His arm curls around my waist pressing into my lower back and I allow my fingers to drift down to the star-shaped scar on his cheek.

"And now Rick's back in the picture, huh?" he asks, his voice quieter. "I still can't believe you called that cold son-of-a-bitch. I would've gotten you out in a split second. Don't need no fancy law degree to do that, I could've come and take care of things."

Shane Walsh doesn't need anything to "take care of things." He's a golden boy in this city and has enough sway to bend us common folk to do his will.

As for Rick, I've let him back into my life because I was desperate. What other choice did I have? Other than my father, a divorce attorney who lives up in New York city, Andrea Harrison, a friend from aerobics class, is the only other lawyer in town that I know. However, she's one of those 'Suits' type of lawyers—exclusively corporate. Which left me with no one else but Rick.

Don't get me wrong, I am glad he showed up. I needed him and he did great.

But then again, he caught me completely by surprise to be honest, when his firm grip on my elbows drew me with such ease into his arms. The familiarity of his embrace, the familiarity of his smell, sent a zing of panic through my lungs.

But how?

How was it possible for a person to smell exactly the same after so many years? More to the point, how could the same said smell still have an effect on me?

No. No that's just...what do you call it?

 _'Odor prompted memories.'_

Yeah. Just a memory. Nothing more. We don't talk, or know each other like we used to before.

Still I gotta confess, he did look fine in that suit though...

"Michonne, are you hearing me?"

Shane's insistent tone cuts through my babbling thoughts.

"It's not so simple," I answer taking in a deep breath. "Had a bit of a complication."

"For a break-in?" His eyebrows rose in disbelief.

Not wanting to get into the details, I give my head a little shake.

Nonetheless, in his typical fashion, my ex could never just Let. It. Go. He asks, "Since when do you need an attorney to file a report for burglary?"

"I never said it was a burglary. Nothing was taken. Your box of baseball caps, your 'I heart green eggs and ham' coffee mug were untouched," I smirk, making light of the conversation.

His turn of expression, however, reminds me of a puzzled three old when they're trying to understand the concept of, No ice-cream before breakfast because Mommy said so. The peck I place on his nose to appease him is automatic.

"My caps ain't important." He smiles, brushes his lips against mine for a tender moment. "Stop trying to change the subject. Woman I wanna know what the hell are you doing calling Rick Grimes? I thought you said he's a, and I quote, 'Self-absorbed asshole.' Now all of a sudden he's not? Now he's your knight in shining armor?"

 _'Knight in shining armor? Seriously?'_

Here's the thing. Not only is Shane Sebastian Walsh a stubborn drama queen. He's also a possessive, suspicious, narcissist of a drama queen. These questions about Rick have very little to do with me, and he and I both know it. Back in high school, Shane, Mr. Star football player, didn't necessarily run in the same circles as Rick and I, but the population at the private Cressida Educational Institute we all attended here in Mueller Parkway, was small enough for everyone to be aware of everyone.

The day Rick Grimes transferred from a prep school over in Buckhead, to our humble campus in Trinity Hills…well, he instantly became Mr. Popular. A new member of the track team, he had this magnetic charm that made it all too easy for any and everybody to naturally want to be in his presence. The way he showed genuine interest made you believe that he was open-minded and accepting no matter your background or your circumstances. Naturally, Shane viewed the new kid as a threat to his spotlight.

However, only those of us who'd spent a ridiculously amount of time with Rick, as I shamefully did, would discover that behind that breezy façade of tolerance, existed a guy who was in reality quite critical, somewhat high-minded and closed off to others. His 'people,' those whom he deemed to be truly worthy of his trust, compiled into a short list.

A very short list.

And guess who felt privileged to be included? Guess who opened her teenage heart and bared her lonely soul to Rick Grimes in exchange for his secrets?

God I was so damn young. And dumb. And appallingly naïve. The perfect recipe to be taken advantaged of.

Knight in shining armor? Shane has no idea what he's talking about. The tightness of his arm around my body suddenly makes it difficult to breathe. "You know what?" I respond, unhinging myself from his vice-like clutch, "Forget it. I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry." Within the next second, I am back on my feet heading out the door.

But my ex-fiancé isn't giving up. Shane pursues me. He grabs my wrist before I reach the stair landing, tugs me close and claims my mouth with his own. I turn away.

"Wait," he says, "I miss you." His fingers dig into my flesh. "I miss us."

"I know." It's hard to meet his eyes. "But nothing's changed. Not for me."

"Oh, come on! Come on now, that's the furthest thing from the truth and you know it! Tell me, why are you really here, Michonne?"

I choose to hold my tongue. He's not someone who can, or wants to be reasoned with.

"No?" Incensed by my silence, he shoves me against the railing. The wood jabs into my spine and I gasp. "Okay, then _I'll_ tell you why. It's because you know that you need me. That your place is here with me, in my house, as my wife. Now stop playing stupid, or else—"

"Or else what Shane?" I wrench my arm away.

"Or else," he says, "you'll go back to being nothing. Nothing but an empty shell without me."

And there it is, the torpedo I dodged by not marrying this man. I have to admit he hid it well—the true depth of his arrogance behind his mantra of being a good man means taking care of your woman. No. Shane believes being a good man means having _control_ over your woman. Don't know why it took me so long to realize how wrong I was thinking that this conceited idiot was my second chance at love. This isn't love. It never was.

Then why? Why am I here, again?

' _You got to play pretend for awhile Michonne.'_

Yeah, I sure as hell did. I played alright. With fire. And now, play time's over.

Without saying another word, I storm down the winding stairwell, swiped up my bag, all the while absorbing the degrading curses Shane is hurling at me. I let each and every word sink in. Deep into my psyche. In the future, these vicious insults will serve as a searing reminder. Hustling out to the curb, I simultaneously dial for a cab whilst making a hundred promises to myself to never return to that house. No matter what my circumstances are, or how bad my crisis is.

Not even if my life depended upon it.

* * *

 _RICK_

After I dropped Michonne off up in Mueller Parkway yesterday, I spent the remaining hours with my mother and my boy having lunch, baking apple pies and playing a few rounds shooting darts. Following my famous carbonara dinner, we capped off the night in the living room re-watching _Psycho_ , one of Mom's favorite movies back from her younger days. Yet, with every minute that ticked by as I basked in the company of my family, my mind lingered on Michonne.

I have so many more questions about her. About her case. If Simon Hawker persists with this obstruction of justice BS, I have to be ready to shut him down, to protect her come what may.

This morning I came into my office over an hour early before seven-thirty wanting to get the most out of the quiet solitude. Around forty minutes later, as I stepped out into the lobby to brew a fresh pot of coffee Abraham comes hustling in. Briefcase wielded in one hand, breakfast sandwiches (probably a toasted bagel with egg and bacon) in the other. His black suit jacket tossed across his forearm he nods a quick Good morning as he makes a beeline towards his office space right across from mine.

After flicking on his lights, his massive frame fills up the doorway. "Hey now," he says, watching me, "Ain't that a 'No fly' zone? Thought you're not allowed to touch Tara's Farberware percolator?"

I shrug. "She'll get over it."

"Living life on the edge, huh?"He chuckles, tosses me one of the sandwich bags.

I smile appreciatively. "Thank you."

"No problem. You catching up on your workload?" he asks.

"I uh, got a new client over the holiday. Thought I'd come in early, get a head start."

"Oh yeah? What's the story?"

"Remember that murder last week, on my side of town?" I dump four hefty scoops of roasted beans into the top chamber.

"Sure," he says, "Thought it was a domestic thing? That's the word round the courthouse and also the media. You know that."

"Yeah well, it's undecided at this point." Whenever a crime involves a minority female being attacked by a minority male, that's usually the first assumptions: 'A domestic thing.'

My research into Annabella Espinosa thus far revealed that she was a twenty-three year old entrepreneur who owned a Beauty salon on Trenton road, Upper East Hillside. She had a three year old daughter, Josanne, and they both lived two minutes away from her shop on St. Michael's Drive with her mother, Mrs. Clara Josephine Espinosa, a fifty-four year old widow. No boyfriend or husband of the deceased was ever mentioned.

As for any criminal records, Annabella got arrested once for shoplifting when she was thirteen. Other than community service, as a minor that was the extent of her punishment.

Abraham gives me an expectant look, waiting for me to say more. So, I give him the 411 on Michonne and her situation.

"The gist is," I say, after having run through the facts, "instead of focusing on the guy who broke into her house, they think she's not being as forthcoming as she should be, and I still have no idea why."

"Gotcha. So, it's a simple case then? Protecting your client's rights?"

"Well I hope so. I have to sit with her again, maybe dig a little deeper."

He draws in a deep breath and presses out his mustache. Abe doesn't trust in 'I hope so's' and 'Maybe's.' But I don't have anything else to offer that's more concrete.

"Alright then," he says after awhile, "Anyways, I can't hang back here too long, heading over to Criminal court. Think I could negotiate a last minute judgement of acquittal for my client."

I plug on the machine. "You talking about Martinez?"

"No, he's my pretrial motion at one o' clock. No, this is Rovia, remember? Long hair, long beard? Got this Jesus Superstar cosplay thing going on?"

"Ooh yeah. Right. I remember. Best you watch your back, I don't trust that guy."

"Me neither. But you know everyone lies. Even this um, witness of yours." Abraham sticks his hands in his pockets and holds my gaze for a few seconds before he continues. "Don't take this the wrong way brother. You two may have been high school buddies or what not once before, but people change. Don't be so quick to assume you can fully trust her."

But I do, though. I _completely_ trust her. Hard for me not to. From Abraham's standpoint I understand his skepticism, but he doesn't know Michonne Moretti like I do. She's not a deceitful person. Not by nature. Only if circumstances were considered to be absolutely dire would she bend her principles. And even then…

I have a surplus of reasons to vouch for her integrity.

Once, when Michonne was seventeen years old she'd gotten into a bloody fight at school with Hannah Castell, a peacock cheerleader who joked about Michonne's hair trying to humiliate her. Despite not being in the wrong, Michonne still got a 3-day suspension. Her mother, tied up at work, couldn't be reached via her phone so Michonne got sent home with a letter. At that point in her life,her Dad already had his own life in the Big apple, and the responsibilities that came with raising three girls fell squarely on her mother's shoulders.

Mrs. Beverly Moretti was not an intimidating tyrant, but Michonne had a gut wrenching fear of disappointing her overworked, single parent.

I'd skipped out of class that day to stay with Michonne for support and made the suggestion that maybe it would be better to simply hide the principal's note. This incident would've only caused her mother more stress than it warranted.

"Fake sick for the next few days," I'd said. "Your Mom's got her hands so full she'd never know."

But Michonne, she wouldn't hear it. She was scared, but she wouldn't make things worse by being dishonest. It was better to face the consequences.

Abraham approaches me and clasps his meaty hands onto my shoulders. "Listen Grimes, you're one of the best lawyers I've ever had to work with. Don't tell Maggie I said that."

I chuckle. "She gets the job done."

"Hey, of course, we can't keep the firm open without her. But you, my friend, are special. Your brain works in mysterious ways. You're tenacious, you don't back down, you've got heart and you're brilliant. I've learned not to second guess you. You believe in this client's integrity? Then that's that. Just get your proof to back her up, and get it fast. You know how it goes with eyewitness testimonies."

I nod. Abe and I have developed an understanding between us and I basically depend on him like a brother. That's the environment he's cultivated with all of his employees. It's a rarity in my line of work. So although I don't make a substantial amount of money, like I used to at my last job as a partner in Virginia, I count my lucky stars to have landed a desk as an associate in Abraham's practice.

With a steaming mug in my hand, I get Daryl on the phone as soon as I get back to my chair. If I'm going to get both the footage from Dee's pharmacy and the information I need from the cops ASAP, Dixon's people skills are a must.

He tells me to sit tight, give him an hour or two to see what he could scrounge up.

While I wait, I do some more digging of my own. And that's when something of interest pops up.

A second later, I'm making another phone call.

After four rings I get a response:

 _"Hello."_

 _"Michonne? It's me, Rick. I need to talk to you, gotta clarify some things. Where are you?"_

 _"Checking in to a hotel."_

 _"A hotel? Why?"_

 _"Shane's was only for a day. He asks too many questions and I'd had enough of explaining myself."_

 _"Questions about the break in?"_

 _"Amongst other things…Anyways, what is it that you wanted to talk about?"_

 _"You may not have known the victim, but what about her older sister? Rosita Espinosa? Employed by FTB Bank as a loans officer. As a matter of fact, she not only works at FTB, but she's located at the branch in Burkeside. Your branch. Was she your loans officer?"_

 _"…Yes. Like I explained to the detectives, that's all a coincidence."_

 _"Too much of a coincidence Michonne. You should've told me that the detectives already made this link between you two. It took me one damned hour to find this. You met with Miss Rosita that day?"_

 _"To pick up my non-indebtedness letter, right."_

 _"And soon after her sister just happened to be dying in your arms?"_

 _"Wrong place, wrong time Counselor. Listen, I have to go, I-I'm sorry. Please, we can talk more about this later."_

 _"You damn right we'll talk more later. I can't help you if you're not telling me the whole story. I'm on your side. So here's the deal, this here, this little omission is strike one. Got it?"_

 _"Yeah, sure, got it."_

 _"Good. I have to go back to the precinct. Text me the info on where you're staying and I'll come over after."_

 _€''''''''''''€_

Hours later, in a dark back room, Daryl and I, together with Dee's pharmacy's rent-a-cop, huddle over a shoddy TV screen straight from the sixties, our three pairs of eyes glued to the grainy footage waiting to catch something from the day in question last week. The first part is as Michonne described. The two women pass each other, then as soon as the victim is out of the shot something happens to catch Michonne's attention. A minute after Daryl asks the security officer to pause the video.

"You see something?" I stare at Michonne kneeling next to Miss Espinosa who is only visible from the shoulders up.

Daryl narrows his eyes. "Yeah, notice anything? Looks like a three way conversation to me."

"She did say that she warned the attacker about having called the police."

"Alright…"

We watch for another minute before Daryl pauses again. This time the frame freezes as Michonne repositions herself to other side of the victim. Her back now facing the camera.

"Pull that back a bit for me," Daryl orders. "Now play."

We re-watch the same three minutes again and again. I don't speak about my client's version of the events so as to not influence Daryl's opinion.

"Okay," he says finally, after about twenty minutes analyzing the images, "First things first, I'm no certified reader of lips, but there's more she's saying to this man. If she tried to scare him off by saying she called the police, it didn't work, not at first. Notice how she starts shaking her head at him?" Daryl points at the screen. "Seems like he's lingering. Now we can't really assume much about what we're seeing, but our department's finest might be latching onto this as though it's something substantial."

"Crazy."

"I know. Tell me about it. But Simon's a real piece of work. However," He fast-forwards the recording then hits pause again. "Right here… Look. She's got her phone in one hand then leans over the victim and places her ear to her lips. Makes sense the woman is bleeding out could hardly speak but—"

"But she's speaking."

"And your client's responding. See how she then moves over her, and her other hand then slips into her jacket pocket. It's a slight movement but it's there. The police couldn't honestly think this woman had anything to do with the murder, but they think there's more and I could possibly see why. I mean, you said her home also got jacked, right?"

"Right." Which is the real issue I have to figure out. How the hell did this guy even find out where Michonne lives in the first place?

"Seems to me someone in the department screwed up on that." Dixon must've read my mind.

Satisfied that there was nothing else to see, we make our way back to my car. I mull over my own interpretation of what I saw, trying to sync it with Daryl's assumption and Michonne's report.

"But what's in the video," Daryl adds, opening the passenger door, "it's subjective. It ain't shit to stand on. That's why they didn't bring Miss Moretti back in for questioning. Not until that damned gang sign in her bedroom wall."

We jump in our seats and I switch on the ignition. "Yeah I know." After the time period of the first forty-eight hours of a murder, all leads, forensic evidence, DNA specimens grow cold, and the chances of finding a suspect drop drastically. The detectives become a bit desperate. Michonne is both a law abiding citizen and a lifelong resident of Trinity hills with absolutely no priors of any kind. What, suddenly she's up to something nefarious?

"She's not gonna say anything more than she already has," I say. "She sat with their sketch artist, as is procedure, they dusted her house for fingerprints, soon they'll get a DNA match to identify who this guy is."

Daryl pulls out a pack of gum and hands me a stick. "DNA could take up to two weeks to run through the database, Rick. You know that. And still, they may not get any hits. A gang banger here in the Hills? Highly unlikely we'll find out who this guy is soon. The Lieutenant will have to ask Atlanta PD for assistance, which of course means it's gonna take a hell of a lot longer."

Which also means the longer Michonne's life is possibly in danger.

* * *

 _MICHONNE_

I sink myself into the brown leather armchair in the corner of my elegant room in the Dupont Hotel. Gingerly I poke at the dinner I had ordered with a glass of wine from the hotel's restaurant, both famished and exhausted by the upheaval in my existence. To my left, my cell phone vibrates on the bed next to my luggage. Without looking, I know who it is, so I leave the call unanswered. It's the fifth time I've allowed Shane's calls to be go through to voicemail.

Earlier, when I'd returned home I stood motionless in the living room for a full minute. Seat cushions stripped and piled onto the floor; my coffee table, the center piece, both broken and overturned; vases shattered to pieces; my oil painting of New York City's skyline torn off the wall. The shock of seeing my house in such a ravaged state slammed into me, leaving me breathless. Just as it did yesterday the first time. Tears pricked at my eyes. I didn't want to touch anything, yet I wanted to fix everything.

On the other hand, it wouldn't be wise or safe for me to stay there. So, with a heavy heart I stuffed my clothes and personal items into a duffel bag, jumped into my car, and headed to the hotel closest to the town's border, just in case.

On the drive over here, I realized how beautiful the day was. Bright clear blue skies, not a grey cloud in sight. And temperatures surprisingly on the warmer side. Similarly, the weather had been the same on that fateful day last week.

When I had taken my lunch break early, my intentions were to step out for a quick run to conduct my private errand. Jerry, my only library assistant, had called in sick which meant I needed to lock up the facilities until I'd finished handle my business.

However, once outside the confines of the school compound, an unexpected sense of appreciation came over me and I no longer felt the need to hurry.

"Sorry to bother you, Sir." With caution and one of my brightest, most non-intimidating smiles, I stopped the stranger that happened to be plowing towards me down the sidewalk of 3rd Avenue in Burkeside. The features of the man's long face pinched together as though I had somehow, unbeknownst to him, materialized magically out of thin air.

 _'All this ebony goodness took awhile to put together darling. Pay attention.'_

"Yes?" he said, "Do you need something?"

I pointed up at the lollipop plant we both stood underneath. "This tree," I said, "do you know what type it is?"

Tilting his head he peered up and down the pavement, bewildered. There were a dozen others all identical planted in the concrete.

"What type?" He shrugged. "Beats me honey. How in the hell should I know?" His eyes scanned my body. His sharp mouth cracked into a smile. He asked, "Anything else I could help you with?"

The clueless response made me laugh out loud.

' _In your dreams old man.'_

My legs then promptly resumed their journey.

I was sure that if I'd asked fifty persons, all born and bred in this city, like me, that question concerning the tree that day, not one would've provided a satisfactory answer. Listen, I'm just being honest. The gorgeous multiple-trunk trees, about 15 feet high (Don't know was just taking a guess there), draped in imperial purple flowers, have been rooted here on this avenue for well over two decades. And I did not have an inkling as to this particular plant's species.

But I loved it.

I had driven along that road a thousand times plus, admiring the brilliance and richness of those deep purple blossoms and I thought it was about time I at least acquired some basic knowledge about them. Say for instance, it's name.

Now, I don't do that often, but every once in awhile I like to stop, open my eyes, and drink in the essence of my hometown here in sweet Trinity Hills, Georgia.

It's important.

Like re-connecting with an old friend.

It's keeps you grounded.

It's keeps _me_ grounded.

Reminds me of my true self.

My ex-husband, Ezekiel, used to balk, calling me "weird" and "rather unusual" when in the spur of the moment I'd get like that—sentimental. And he was right…he _is_ right. I am weird. But I can't help it. I don't want to help it. Stepping back to appreciate what little beauty surrounds me, makes me happy.

There's not much left of anything pure that brings me joy these days.

The design of this town, the style, the artistic sights, the historic parks and yes, the specimen of our trees, together with the effervescent people that make up my increasingly multicultural city, have more or less remained the same for the past thirty something years. This sameness of course might be dull to others, but to me, it's more of a comfort. The wonderful familiarity of home.

Oh, but don't get me wrong, we're not exactly stuck in a time capsule either.

In between the late nineteenth century iconic stone buildings, quite a few modern styled structures have sprung up. Especially in the central and downtown areas.

We've also, within the past few years, established our own Heritage museum, the pride of the city, as well as a brand new fully equipped music centre. Not to mention, branches of Cox Automotive, and Cisco systems also moved into our humble town. Our Mayor Walsh welcomed them both (and their money) with arms wide open and that cheesy politician grin.

I should give him a call.

Such a sweet man.

Things didn't work out between me and his son, but the Mayor and I had our own thing going on. No hard feelings...I hope he understands.

Anyways, like any other place, Trinity Hills is also far from perfect.

Far, far from perfect.

The streets are dusty.

The heat could be stifling (it's April for God sakes and the temperature is already pushing 90).

And the smells are god-awful. Each one like a swift kick to my throat.

Yet, there I was, a week ago. Glad to have opted to take public transportation. And why not? It was such a beautiful day that day. The city was vibrant and buzzing with life.

Little did I know that in less than ten minutes, my own life was about to be dropkicked off its axis. Derailed and damaged, once again.

"Michonne." A man's voice intrudes my thoughts. Setting my tray down, I took a swallow of wine before getting up to peer through the hole of my hotel room door.

"Hey," I knot the belt of my robe as I allowed Rick to enter my temporary abode.

"Hey," he says, "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay."

"Good…" Pausing, he pivots left then right studying my suite. "Look, I need to apologize about earlier. If I came across as harsh on the phone, I'm sorry. You know I don't doubt you, right?"

"Right. You were just doing your job. It's what I'm paying you for. Which we still have to discuss, by the way."

"Michonne, we don't," he insists. "I owe you. Think we both know that."

I step back and cock my head to the side. "Rick, you can't actually be serious?"

But he is. His resolve is dead set in his eyes. For me, however, what transpired between us in the past must stay there— _in the past_. Barricaded inside the dark, lifeless cave of our history. If I'm to rely on him now, I need to trust that any residual dormant emotions—both his and mine— won't reawaken to screw up our business arrangement. Rick and I _should_ be on the same page, because God help me, but I can't take any more messiness in my life.

I don't, however, whisper any of this to him. I keep my mouth shut. Besides, he's already moved on towards my meal perched on the table by the patio window. Picking up my fork, he stabs at my noodles. Rude.

"What happened with Shane?" His tone switched. And his stance becomes overly casual. "Everything went okay with him?"

Okay, we are _definitely_ not on the same page. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "You said he was asking questions. I hope you didn't say anything he might be forced to repeat in court."

 _'Oh! Thank god_.' "No. I didn't. We talked about…other things." I removed my plate from his reach and sat on the edge of the bed.

After apologizing again, this time for staying late with another client, Rick assures me that I wouldn't need to worry about the cops and their shitty suspicions. He says they're incompetent. They have nothing on me. Been watching too much CSI or some shit and that Lieutenant Jadis Sinclair is seeing things because like detective Hawker, she's just as bat-shit crazy. Rick says 'shit' a lot. He never swore this much before. Not sure why, but I think I like it. Kind of amusing this _'I know what I'm about. They better not mess with me.'_ tough bravado.

"I watched that footage about fifty times," he says, peeling off his black suit jacket before hanging it over the backrest of the armchair. "There's nothing there. At least nothing concrete to use against you. If they come at you again, we'll sue the whole damn city. They don't know, but I'm good with that." A smirk dangled on the corner of his lips.

His overconfidence is surprisingly comforting.

"Hey," He suddenly comes and sits next to me. "Why did you—why did you come here? Why not go to your mother's?"

"No. My whole family's in that house. I couldn't take that chance. If this…guy found out where I live, then…" I couldn't finish my thought. A cold –blooded killer having access to my loved ones? Instantly, the idea fills me with nauseating anxiety.

Rick quickly appraised me. To my surprise my stomach clenched. "Is there anything else I should know about?"

His soft blue eyes stare down at mine. They were darkening as the space between his brows pinched with a knowing look. I see his mouth open, then close. He waits for me instead.

This is it. This is the moment I'd been dreading ever since I saw Rick show up at the police station less than forty-eight hours ago. The moment for complete honesty. I get up and place my untouched food back onto the table.

"It's okay," he reassures me. "Remember, I'm on your side."

"I know." My fingers swipe up the glass of Merlot bringing it to my lips for a generous sip. I savor the burn.

"Did you have anything to do with Annabella's murder?"

I turn to face him clutching my robe to my neck and I shake my head. "No."

"Do you know who attacked her?"

"No."

"Do you at least have an idea why she was killed?"

God, the way Rick is looking at me makes my insides quiver, and not in a good way either. I jerk my eyes away. "Yes."

My heartbeat starts thundering in my ears. I set the glass back down, and retrieve an envelope from in between the pages of a novel sitting on the side table, holding it out to him. I watch as his eyes widen in shock when he notices the packet's smeared with blood. In an instant, he is on his feet. He grabs my wrists and twists my arms over.

"Whose blood is this Michonne?" His fingers then scamper up to my neck and my face. I pull away. He's not thinking straight.

"No, I'm okay. The blood's not mine." I empty the contents of the envelope onto the bed behind him. "And neither is this. They're both hers—Annabella's."

Shuffling back a step or two, his arm shoots towards the revealed item. "Are you—Is this for real? What am I looking at?"

"It's a key."

"Yes," he huffs, "I can see that. Give me details."

"It's a safe-deposit key. I got it from her. After he left she told me to check her pants pocket. I did, pulled this out and she said, "Hide it for Josy." Her daughter."

He keeps looking down at the gold key. He avoids looking up at my face. I could see the line of his jaw hardening, and I brace myself for what's coming next.

"You know, I don't recall you being so deceitful," he says after a long moment of silence. "I guess I was wrong. You really have changed."

"I wasn't trying to be deceitful. I was just trying to think things through. Didn't want to get ahead of myself. Annabella Espinosa was so young, and she died so violently. Yet her last thoughts were of her child. And I…"

'I thought about my child…what were his last thoughts while he was dying?'

"Rick, I don't know why I hid it. At the moment I was in shock. Taking the key was a reflex action, but, yes, keeping it was a choice. I watched a woman die. I want to give her a little peace."

His eyes trailed up to meet mine. "Her or yourself?"

I nod. "Both. Annabella's death cannot be for nothing. I won't let it be."

"Jesus Michonne. This is possible evidence."

I shrug. "To be honest I didn't think this is what that man wanted from her. I just hadn't gotten the chance to deliver it to the little girl's grandmother. But then his tattoo appeared marked in my house, and so now it looks like I've gotta start watching my back because somehow he knows I have this. I need to find out what this opens, and I don't think I can figure it out by myself. I really need somebody to help me. So...are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you gonna be that somebody? If not…I'll find someone else, or—"

"Or what? You gonna solve this solo? Who do you think you are? Think I wanna see you get killed?"

"Then let's quit wasting time arguing Counselor."

At this point my cool-headed lawyer starts pacing. "You know this is dangerous, right?"

"We don't know _what_ this is."

"For the love of God Michonne! Have you lost your mind?" Both hands rake through the sides of his hair as he stops to glare at me. "Okay, okay…If I keep your secret, help you find out about this key, then you're coming home with me."

I wince at his suggestion. "Wait. What? Why?"

"I can keep you safe."

"Right. Because you're a secret CIA agent."

"No, smart ass, because if there's a mole in the police department leaking your information then it's only a matter of time before this killer finds you. I'm sure you used your credit card to book this room. That's not hard to track."

He has a good point. Nevertheless…"I could stay at another hotel. Use cash"

"For how long? Doesn't make sense to blow through your savings account. You'll just stay with me. No one is gonna look for you there." He pulls my duffel bag and zips it open. Looking around, he starts packing up what little belongings I have laid out. "Get dressed."

My throat runs dry. Me, staying at Rick's house? "There must be some other way?" I protest.

He stuffs my toothbrush case, my makeup pouch, and my copy of 'Sometimes I Lie' into the front compartment. "No. There isn't."

The truth is I am afraid. As I should be. Still, this is not such a great idea. I tug on my bag, try to get him to stop, and we struggle a bit for my luggage. My grip loosens just as he yanks the straps from my hands and Rick stumbles before hitting his knee against the side table. I watch him clutch his leg in agony. He drops to the bed and guilt propels me to assist him. After rifling through my bag I find my bottle of Alleve. I open it, hand it to him before dashing off to the bathroom to refill my wine glass with water. He thanks me when I return and pours out a handful of the pills into the cradle of his of palm.

"Wait you're only supposed to take two of that," I warn him.

He ignores me. Rick swallows them all.

I will my eyes not to grow large as I gape at the ease with which his head swung back. The blue green veins popping out the side of his neck.

He squints at my reaction and shrugs his shoulders. "What?" recapping the bottle, Rick sets it down. "Like Flintstones. Kids'stuff."

The silence thereafter was… awkward. For lack of a better word. We stare at each other having a whole different conversation with the back of our eyes.

I reach for my bag and find a jeans and a sweatshirt. "I guess I was wrong too. You haven't changed at all."


	4. Chapter 3

**AN:** Sorry that this update didn't come out sooner, like I planned, I'll try to do better on the next one. Also I this turned out a tad bit longer, so please forgive me. 😊

* * *

 ** _Chapter_**

 _ **Three**_

 _RICK_

My mother barges into my room without knocking. She's so preoccupied with what to prepare for breakfast that she completely ignores the fact that I'm sitting on the edge of my bed with nothing on but a damp towel wrapped around my waist.

"You think French toast, eggs and coffee would be okay for Michonne, right?" she asks, pacing my bedroom floor.

"Ma, aren't you two friends? Why don't you go ask her?"

She smacks me in my shoulder. "Don't be ridiculous Ricky. She's our guest. It's been awhile since I've had guests. I just want her to feel comfortable, not as though we're putting her on the spot. Maybe I could run to the deli and get some bagels? The blueberry ones. Or a Reuben sandwich. That's actually Carl's favorite. It'll be a nice treat."

When she realizes I'm not responding, she stops making tracks and furrows her brows. "Is something wrong? You're distracted, you don't seem to be listening to me."

If my mother only knew. Right now, with my left leg extended, I'm rubbing my knee thinking about how this old injury ultimately cost me my track scholarship at UVA at the start of my Junior year and Michonne's friendship. "No Ma, I'm listening. There's no time to make a run, Carl has to get going for school. Keep it simple."

"You know what? You're absolutely right," she quickly concedes. "We'll do something nice for dinner instead. I'll have more time to prepare."

"Hey, Mom, no one is to know she's here, alright?"

"With my failing memory that may not be a problem," she jokes.

A sticky lump jams me to the back of my throat. "Mom."

"Ricky please," she waves away my concern, "Whether you like it or not, this is my reality. Better to have some fun with it. Besides, I'm not that far gone yet." She places her hands on either side of my face now and tilts my head up. "Listen, I am so proud that you're giving it your best to help her. Lord knows the hell she's been put through. But she's so exceptional at handling her burdens, I don't know how she does it. "

My mother always thought Michonne was exceptional. Unlike Lori—her actual daughter-in-law, mother to her eldest grandchild.

"Okay, get some clothes on and zip your tush downstairs as quickly as possible," Mom says taking her leave. "I could hear her already up and about so I'm gonna get busy. Breakfast would be ready in fifteen minutes."

When I first brought Michonne to my house, Mom was altogether taken aback by our friendship. The amount of exclusive time I spent with Michonne made her wary. It didn't take long however, for Michonne's endearing qualities to work their magic, putting my mother at such ease that eventually Michonne was invited to drop by whenever she damn well pleased regardless if I was actually at home or not.

"All I want for both of my boys, is for them to find someone who respects and understands them," Mom had said one night after Michonne ate dinner at our house. Swirling a glass of white wine, my mother smiled her meddling smile.

I dumped the pizza box into the trash before tying up the garbage bag. "And you think Lori doesn't respect and understand me Ma?"

"I never said that Rick." She feigned innocence, as though that weighty statement was not a direct hit on my girlfriend for the past three years. Ma then threw an obvious glance towards the porch where Michonne was waiting for me to take her home.

I sighed. "Ma, for the umpteenth time, Michonne and I are just friends. I'm in-love with Lori."

"In-love? Since when?"

I shrugged. "Since forever. Thought you knew that by now." True, when my parents split up and Mom and I escaped to Trinity Hills whilst my younger brother, Spencer, stayed in Sandy Springs with our bastard of a father, Lori and I had found it difficult to maintain our own "long-distance" relationship. We had been "on-again, off-again" more times than I could count since we'd been fourteen.

"Get real, Rick," Mom laughed obnoxiously. "You're too young. Young people are always confused."

I shot her an incredulous look. Confused was right. Two seconds ago she was offering up Michonne to me on a silver platter as an option for some "respect and understanding." Knowing when it was best not to get into a mind-warping debate with one's conniving mother, I sidestepped the topic by kissing my number one girl on her cheek before heading towards the front door. Trash bag in tow.

"You have your keys?" she'd asked.

I shook my head. "I'll be back soon."

"That's what you always say. Then I find myself crawling out of bed to come down and open up to let you in," she'd smirked.

As usual, she was right. Michonne and I had spent hours parked in front of her house just talking till it was midnight. The rift between my parents caused a rift between my younger brother and me, and I had desperately needed to vent. Michonne sat in silence, listening, holding my hand as I confessed all the twisted ways my Dad loved to mess with us, his family. Richard Grimes Sr., time and again, proved to be both an emotional and a psychological wrecking ball. But he had money, and with it some power. Spencer valued the advantages that came with our Dad's influence, over sticking with our mother.

Michonne's only words whispered after I spilled my pain, were, "I understand," and "It'll be alright."

That became the norm for us. Like salve, she was an incredible listener. I never had to censor myself, or worry about if my issues were being blown out of proportion or anything. The freedom of opening up without fear of criticism and judgment was addictive.

Years later, it's the sole reason why I'd divulged to her, and _only_ her, my "unhealthy attachment" to the prescription painkillers given to me after my ligaments shredded during track practice in college.

In doing so, confiding in my best friend, however, I had also crossed a line. It didn't take much, as I knew it wouldn't, to convince her to help me make a terrible decision to cover up my secret.

Right after, though, guilt toxified my system. To the point where I became unkind and distant. I did try to reconnect with Michonne when I got myself cleaned up. But she'd decided holding on to our friendship wasn't worth it. That _I_ wasn't worth it.

She never came out and said those exact words, but her attitude was closed off the few times we spoke on the phone. I could sense the difference and hear the disapproving tone she carried in her voice. As though, all of a sudden I was beneath her. Did she know how long I struggled with my addiction? I doubted that. We lived hundreds of miles apart. Me, in Charlottesville, Virginia. Her in Queens, New York. In due time, we both moved on and lost touch with each other entirely.

Until now, that is. Both bruised and broken and back home with less than half a mile between us. After all this time, it takes something drastic for Michonne and I to reacquaint ourselves—a murder.

€…..€

"Thank you Michonne for clearing up the breakfast dishes," Mom says, as she packs her handbag with the bowl of fruit I fixed for her as a snack, "But honey, Rick was more than capable, you didn't have to trouble yourself."

Michonne looks up from the game Carl's showing her from his tablet at the dining table. "No trouble. Everything tasted incredible, and I just wanted to express my gratitude to you for allowing me to stay here in your house. I promise it's only for a little while." She blinks over at me, hoping that it would really only be for a little while.

My mother hooks her arm through mine. "Are you kidding me? The pleasure is ours. Isn't that right son?"

I suddenly feel the need to clear my throat. "Of course…"

Looking at the time I send Carl off to his room to finish get himself together for school. Despite the short notice, his buddy Patrick did me a favor by asking his dad if Carl could join the carpool just for this morning. Today, I've decided not to go into the office. I want to see how much I could accomplish on this case with Michonne from home.

"Need me to bring anything back?" Mom asks, as I walk her to the closet helping her into her jacket. Mom's been scheduled to go into the local clinic where she volunteers. Usually they allow her to spend 3 to 4 hours carrying out simple duties such as patient check-in and check-out, entrance monitoring, and volunteer registration and translation. It's the most she can safely do given her situation, and it's only three times a week. "Reg is picking me up after my shift at the clinic. We'll swing by the grocery before coming home."

Suddenly my hands go still at her shoulders. "Wait. Reg?"

"Mr. Munroe," Michonne explains, now standing next to me smelling like peaches and the beginning of spring. "He lives just down the street around the corner."

"Yeah, I know who he is," I reply. The retired veterinarian has lived in Burkeside for almost as long as we have. The widower usually keeps to himself. "But why is he picking you up, is what I'd like to know."

My mother smirks. "Oh Ricky—"

"Nope. Don't "Oh Ricky" me. Come on out with it."

Mom pulls her hair out from under her collar. "Michonne, you see what I have to put up with it? It's like I told you."

Michonne cracks a tiny smile. "Mmhm. I see."

So these two talk about me? Interesting.

"Who's the parent and who's the child?" My mother turns to retrieve her handbag from off the closet door hook.

"You still haven't answered my question," I say, clenching my jaw and tightening my fists.

"Reg is a handsome, eligible bachelor, and I'm a single, white female. You figure it out." Wiggling her ringless fingers in my face, my mother licks her top lip in a way that's too seductive for a woman in her sixties.

Michonne turns her head, settling her gaze upon me, waiting for my answer. I swear there's amusement skipping about in her pretty dark eyes. At my expense?

"Maybe I could take you to the store later," I offer, with every intention of carrying out a full blown interrogation to find out just what the hell has been going on.

"Why is that? I'm grown. Besides," Mom waves a finger back and forth between Michonne and me, "you two have a lot of things to work through."

The rigid turn of expression on Michonne's face is hard to miss. Now it's my turn to be amused by her discomfiture.

"Okay, my ride is here," Mom says, her attention caught by Nurse Anderson honking her horn in front of the house.

"Make sure your phone is charged and close by," I say. "I'll be checking in on you."

"Yes dear. Love you too." Mom tip toes and I lean down for her to give me my kiss. She smacks her rose pink lips loudly against my cheek. The second before she walks out the door she looks over her shoulder at Michonne. "Seldom does my son have patience with the stupid, and never does he have tolerance for the unjust. In other words, he's a bulldog at his job. Trust him."

Michonne locks her eyes with mine and lifts her shoulders in a half shrug. "I do." She and I both know she has no other choice.

* * *

Once Carl too was gone, Michonne and I returned to the dining table, our mindsets switched to getting down to business. There was work to be done.

"What's this?"

Michonne places a thin folder next to my laptop settling herself into the seat next to mine.

"This is all I have so far on Josy." She traces her finger over the page reciting off the printed facts. "Josanne Tatiana Espinosa; Lives… _lived_ with her mother and grandmother in Hillside, and attends Montrichard's kindergarten not too far from home on Jericho avenue. She's only three years old. Born at Piedmont hospital, Atlanta, back in 2014 on the twenty-eight of June via a C-section. And her father's name was left blank on her birth certificate."

I attempted to restrain my widening smile. "This, this is good. How did you get this? Facebook or something?" My challenge is slightly cheeky, but mostly good-natured. I'm genuinely impressed.

"Are you serious?" Her expression pinches. "My dissertation was on research methods. It's the essence of my job."

"You're a bulldog too huh?" I continue to tease.

She huffs and shakes her head. "Not really, Rick. This isn't much, I know. But I'm not done." She moves to sit behind her own computer on the opposite side of the table. "Strangely enough, Annabella doesn't even have a Facebook account. Or Instagram, or any other social media under her name as a matter of fact. Her mother does though. Mrs. Clara Josephine, mother of two, age 56, widowed at 38, and a retired nurse."

Last night, questions, scenarios and possible outcomes did laps around my head concerning Michonne's decision to hide this key at the victim's request. I went over and over again her answer to my number one query: "Why not hand over the key to her family?" From what I'd gathered, she reasoned that if this guy killed Annabella in cold blood, what's to stop him from killing Annabella's mother and her daughter. And If we take it to the police now, now we risk handing it right over to this criminal because he quite possibly has someone on the inside given how easily he found out where Michonne lives.

In either case, we needed to make a decision quickly. She may not have known that the key was related to Annabella's murder, but now it's highly likely. And the longer we hold on to this piece of evidence the higher the chances she could most definitely get booked for obstruction of justice.

"We really should be cross referencing which bank matches the key," I say, "More than likely it's an FTB key, given that Annabella was presumably on her way to see her sister, Rosita, that day. In order to confirm that, though, I'd have to talk with her myself. Find out if she had a pre-existing appointment with her sister. Also, if the key really belongs to FTB bank, then Rosita must know what's in the box. Could be money, something else of value, jewelry, a policy, or some other document." I shake my head, still not 100% sure if this is what this guy was after. But then again, it has to be. The key is the only connection to why Michonne's place was broken into but not burglarized.

"I think," Michonne murmurs, cutting into my thoughts, "the only way to access a safe deposit box of someone who's deceased, is if the box was registered in the name of a trust."

"Josy?"

"Yeah," she says. "Then the successor trustee would be able to get to it."

I nod. "The tattoo you saw, represents a gang out in Atlanta. And according to your intel, three years ago Annabella also lived in Atlanta. This guy could allegedly be Josy's father."

She shrugs. "But maybe not."

"Yeah I know, it's just a theory. Because if he is, in this case, maybe she was on the run from him and this is personal. When it's personal, trust me it makes all the difference."

Michonne lowers her gaze, giving thought to my speculation. "He went into a rage," she says after a moment, "I saw something snap within him and he reacted. It's like I said, an inhuman look in his eyes. Something took over. But now, maybe he's realizing his mistake. We need to talk to her sister, or her mother. Or both. I could drive over to the bank now, ask to speak to Miss Espinosa."

I hold out my arm in protest as she slides out of her chair. "Uh, here's the thing. You're supposed to be keeping a low-profile. Remember that?"

"What? I have to stay cooped up here?"

"Michonne, someone has leaked your identity and address to a killer. Do we really have to go over this again?"

"Look…" she sighs, "I get why we're playing it safe, but you shouldn't underestimate me. I should go with you. We'll solve this faster together. I'm not that same naïve school girl from before."

"Of course not." Was she ever? "Listen, you do your thing. Work on getting more information but from here. Where no one suspects you're hiding."

She intertwines her arms across her chest.

"Michonne?"

"Okay!" She shakes her head. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I'm—I'm just…"

"Impatient?"

She winced at my choice of word.

' _Jesus, why did I just say that?'_

"Was gonna say frustrated, but okay."

"Now, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. The word just—it just slipped, what I meant to say was..."

"No," she drops back into her seat, "You're right. I am impatient. And stubborn."

I put my arm up. "Same. On both counts. And I can understand your frustrations. Trust me, I do. You went through something traumatizing. Made a split second decision that, in the moment, seemed to be the decent thing to do, but now maybe not. You're not safe in your own home and your life is possibly in danger. Shit, I'd be impatient and frustrated too. "

She nods with a pensive frown.

"But I'm thinking can't plow through life without obtaining some battle scars. Right?"

She shrugs. "I think I have more than enough for two lifetimes."

That made the two of us. However, I wouldn't be so bold as to compare my tragic experiences to hers.

My mother (aka my direct 411 line to what's going on in my ex-best friend's life) once explained how Michonne lost her son. How he had gotten very sick, very fast, and his little body just gave out. That loss led to the immediate breakdown of her marriage. Mom said she thinks that's how Shane managed to get his hooks in. He took advantage of her vulnerability. She may have been right, but then again they stayed together for so long. If part of Michonne is still like anything she used to be before, I think she let the relationship happen, stuck with it because she wanted it. Not the other way round. No one makes Michonne do anything she wasn't already committed to doing. And if she was committed to change her mind, hell would freeze over before anyone could convince her to change it back. Her will and resoluteness is _that_ formidable.

Even now I can see that fiery determination in her eyes, and I am not gonna lie but it flickers something carnal in me. A charge. Warm and familiar. I like it. But I stand my ground. Although, I won't be surprised if she snuck out of here as soon as she gets the chance.

My hand reaches for my phone and I contact Daryl. I explain how I need him to squeeze me into his schedule as soon as possible, because after I make that trip up to Hillside, I have to be back in time to collect Carl from school, then take him to his chess club for practice. Daryl's unable to make any promises, however. Says he's got some background checking to do for Maggie's two new clients. His hands are tied but he'll call me back as soon as he's available.

"Carl and I are counting down the days till he gets his driver's permit," I think out loud. "Would make both of our lives a whole lot easier. You remember when you went for yours?" I ask Michonne. "How excited you were?"

"Yeah," she says with some hesitancy. She glimpses at me before putting on her glasses. I offer a smile, tugging a bashful curl of her mouth in response.

Opening her own laptop she starts typing away. "Excited? More like I was feeling myself that's for sure."

"Thought you had it in the bag?"

"Thought I had it in the bag. But then only to fail in the stupid parking lot like a sucker. I felt so horrible, I couldn't have told anyone about it. Well, except for you and my mother. Think I even cried. But you um…you told me to come over the next day. And I did, right after school. When I got here, you came out the door holding in your hand a single sunflower."

I narrow my eyes.

 _'Really?'_

She readjusts herself in her seat. "Told me not to feel too bad, cause you didn't pass on your first try either, and then you surprised me with another gift—my favorite box of chocolates."

For the life of me I can't recall doing any such thing. But apparently I did because it made her feel better. I am sifting through the file cabinet of my mind, but I'm drawing a blank. "You sure that was me? That guy sounds fantastic."

She laughs, and it's frickin' adorable.

"Whatever happened to that guy?"

"He grew up."

My eyebrows rise at her jab.

She gives me a 'Sorry, not sorry' shrug. I can't be mad for that.

Switching back to the topic of my son, Michonne says she'd spoken to Carl a few times before, which I already knew about, and she thinks he's a cool kid. He's smart, intuitive, and he's got that thirst for knowledge.

"He gets that from Deanna," I agree.

"And you. Always top of the class Mr. Honor student."

"So were you. And don't forget that stint you did on the debate team."

"Oh god. For like a minute. Worst decision of my life…" Something on her screen catches her attention. It's an email from the principal approving her last minute request for vacation leave.

While she responds to the message I get us some snacks. A yogurt and water for her, bag of chips for myself. Instead of returning to my side of the table though, I sink to the chair next to hers.

"Is that the same knee?" She glances down as I take care to extend my left leg.

I nod. "It is." The bump against the side table left me with a lingering, yet dull, throbbing pain.

She sips from her bottle. "Can't be that bad. Not after all these years."

"Yes, actually. But not often."

"Have you ever tried self-messages?"

"Of course. Amongst other methods. But it's not as effective."

"Yeah. Or maybe you're doing it wrong."

"You're a therapist now, smart ass?" I smile and tap the side of her glasses.

She smiles back, genuinely. "No. Just well-informed."

"Oh I bet you are." I shovel a handful of chips into my mouth.

"About two years ago my Mom got diagnosed with knee osteoarthritis. I went with her to therapy and picked up a thing or should let me show you some time."

 _'Excuse me?'_

My ears burn in a split second. "Nah, that won't be necessary."

Her mouth pouts and she shrugs. "Suit yourself. But you can't be a sixty-year old popping Vicodin to numb your pain, Rick."

"Sixty? I just turned Forty Michonne. Now I appreciate your advice, well-intentioned as it may be, but I can take care of myself."

"Okay." She stares at me then shakes her head. "I was just thinking I owe you, is all."

"No you don't. Drop it 'cause I don't want to hear about that anymore."

Her gaze lingers on mine a little too long before she looks away.

Her phone now lights up _. 'New Message: Mother.'_

"How is your mom these days?" I ask, as her fingers tap on the screen.

"Same. Keeping herself busy."

"Retired?"

"Yeah right. Retired my ass. Always a mouth or two to feed."

"Still into the real estate game?"

"Yup. Flipping houses now too. Making a mint because she's so good at it."

"Damn. I'm impressed. Well… good for her," I say.

After I dispose of my empty pack and her water bottle in the trash bin of the kitchen, my legs then take the stairs two at a time as I disappear up into my room. I change into a shirt and tie and grab my jacket. I might have to interview Mrs. Clara Josephine on my own.

Still insisting that I should allow her to go along with me once I return to the dining area, I stick to my decision, tell her no. I remind Michonne of all the reasons why her talking to the victim's mother at this point is absolutely not a good idea. She concedes, but I see she's not happy about it.

If I play my cards right, this could be it, though—our second chance at having a friendship. I mean I want that, so why not? At my age, and especially after my divorce, the number of persons I can trust and confide in has dwindled to a few. Despite the years that's passed maybe I could convince Michonne to forgive and forget, once and for all.

"Michonne?"

She looks up and slides off her glasses.

My chest tightens and I loosen the knot at my throat a bit.

 _'Let's just get this out there, Grimes. Only way to move on.'_

"You know I, I didn't mean to cause you any pain back then, right?"

Her eyes widened with unease. "Rick please, it's been so long. So much has happened that I don't hold what we did against you."

"Yeah, you do. You do," I insist, even though she's persistently shaking her head at me."That's why we stopped talking. I remember."

"No. It's—it's how you treated me…afterwards. I know you were still trying to get a handle on things, but it still hurt."

As she rises to her feet, I draw closer to her, staring down into her eyes. I want her to see, to believe how truly sorry I am. "I was an ass, wasn't I?"

I watch her bare perfectly-shaped lips fold in, and the quickening of her pulse in her neck. Swallowing her response she, instead, squints her eyes holding up her index finger and thumb close together.

I chuckle deep inside my throat. "Well, at least we can agree to that then. Listen, I did care about you, trusted you, and I loved you. Before and after. We were partners in crime."

"Literally." She snorts then laughs. "Knucklehead."

"Bubble-butt."

She gasps. "Oh my god! You did not just call me that."

"What? You still got it, and you grew into it." I peep a look at her backside. "Nicely might I add."

She smacks the side of my head. "Perv."

 _'Look at_ _that. Just like old times.'_

"So we're good?"

"Sure," she replies. "We're good."

* * *

 _MICHONNE_

Mrs. Deanna Grimes slid a sinful slice of Red velvet cake passed her lips and moaned.

I can't help myself, I laugh hard. This woman has no shame and I love her for it.

"Mr. Munroe sure is spoiling you with these treats," I say right after I regain my composure.

"He's a good man. Makes me happy. But don't utter a word about this to my son." She points her fork to the last crumb on her plate.

I pretend to zip and lock my lips. I have been sworn to secrecy.

She glances around the house even though it's midday and no one else is here besides us girls. "You know, it makes me happy to see you and Ricky put your differences aside. I remember how attached you two kids were. Up to this day I could never figure out how and why you ended up hating each other."

I draw in a deep breath and set my glass of juice down on the countertop. "Oh Deanna, I don't hate Rick. Never did." Not even if I tried. "But you know how it goes. People grow, they change, forge new paths and it becomes practically impossible for relationships to stay the same." I sure as hell did not want my relationship with Rick Grimes to stay the same.

Narrowing her eyes at me, full of disbelief and wisdom, Deanna excuses herself to the bathroom.

I slump into the barstool at the kitchen island. Needing a change was the real reason I took the chance to "break-up" with him. Why put effort into something that no longer served a purpose useful to you. That sounds harsh I know, but the truth is that Rick Grimes wasn't simply my best friend. He was the love of my life.

While to him, I was not.

Sad, painfully unoriginal, but categorically true.

Earlier, I told him that we were good, but honestly, we are not good. At least not in the way he wants us to be. Who would want to have that constant reminder of their first heartbreak ever so present? Every time I look at Rick, talk to him, I'm haunted by the humiliating memories of being a love sick fool.

Yet…I don't regret having known him. We did share great times. He became an integral part of my life—my history.

On the very first day we met, he was this random white guy, wearing a brown corduroy jacket and dark colored jeans, who'd struck up a conversation with me after school one afternoon. Walking out the front doors he simply started talking about how he was relatively new, but he had noticed me in the cafeteria before because we sat a bench apart, and that I totally had the upper hand in that squabble with that Blake guy.

"He is such man baby," he said.

And I responded, "No I was wrong. He's just a plain ole baby."

He laughed. "Wow, I thought that guy was gonna clock you, but you showed no fear. I like that." And next thing I knew he's sitting next to me on the bus.

But here's the thing…One moment he's saying something about something whilst I was staring out the window of the school bus and in the next, I turned, looked up, and...

Bam!

His blue eyes snatched my heart right out from my chest. I was a goner...for years.

I was like _'What the hell just happened?'_ Stunned, I lost my speech, my sense of place and time, my God given ability to think and to breathe. It was so dramatic. So unexpected. Not to mention such a delayed reaction, because come on, I had been chatting with this guy for almost thirty minutes, kind of feeling him out like, ' _Yeah, this new kid is cool. We could hang.'_

But in a singular, innocent instant, something spooky took place. I, I don't know how else to describe it, and I won't say magical either. No way. But Rick Grimes gave me...a look. Not a flirtatious glance or anything, no, just an open, honest look. Like sunshine.

His blue eyes melted my insides and after all these years I will never, could never, forget that feeling. It was...Okay I'm gonna say it...Magical.

Ugh! How ridiculous. But it's my truth.

Simply put, I. Fell. In-love.

I plummeted. I sank into the dark place. And I stayed there. I stayed in-love with Rick Grimes, again, for years. He came into my life, he made me happy, (so happy), and I was hopelessly, giddily in-love with my best friend.

Until one day...I simply wasn't.

One day, I climbed out from that hole. I walked out from that prison. I was free. God! It was such a relief.

Did I ever tell him? Mmm, yes and no. I never said the actual words "Hey buddy, I think you're pretty awesome. Amazing. Da bomb. You rock my world." No way, I was far too shy for that conversation to ever happen.

On the other hand, I'm pretty sure he knew I had real feelings for him.

Not from the way I stared at him, hung onto every word that slipped off his perfect lips, or was always at his beck and call. No, Rick knew he owned my trifling ass from the way I, without question, without hesitation, drove hours across state lines, compromised my integrity, and broke the law to help save his future, his stupid reputation all because he said he "needed me."

Hmph. I was such an idiot.

And what did I get in return, for my labour of love six months later?

An honest- to-God invitation to his and Lori's wedding.

I never went.


	5. Chapter 4

**_€...€_**

* * *

 ** _Chapter_**

 ** _Four_**

 _MICHONNE_

"Eighteen," Rick says, plopping down onto his living room couch, followed by a sigh of exhaustion. "That's how old Annabella was when she moved out of her mother's house."

"And?" I cast an expectant look in his direction. He pauses with casual indifference to remove his tie and unbutton his shirt collar, smirking at my impatience. I practically hounded him for any scrap of progress as soon as he strode through the front door, the scent of fresh rain trailing in behind him.

Every minute spent in his house bullies me with memories of our past. Even standing here in this familiar living room has me on edge. Despite Deanna's "new" furniture set and curve tv, I am surrounded by the same old cream and brown décor with the 1980's brass chandelier, and that massive Victorian painting passed down through the Grimes family for three generations. Literally, I have stepped back in time, and Rick's persistent boyish good looks only stimulates a pang of desperation, needling me to escape to my own life.

Rick leafs through the pages of his legal pad and hands it over, pointing out the notes I should read. "Didn't go to college. Without saying a word she just packed her bags and left. A bit of a firecracker, according to her mother, was always mixed up with the wrong crowd. Once, at thirteen, she was busted for shoplifting and got off with community service."

As I pace the floor, amazed that I can still decipher his indecipherable handwriting, my mind tries to connect the dots that could lead us to possible answers. Annabella left home as a teen, probably right after she graduated from high school. Yet at twenty three she was an entrepreneur with her own Beauty shop. Within a year of her return to Trinity hills, 'Skin Deep Beauty salon' opened on Faber Avenue which is prime commercial real estate, which means it took her five years to enroll and complete cosmetology school, work, and save enough cash to start up her own business.

"Rosita?" I guess out loud. The older sister works as a loans officer, probably she made it possible for Annabella to get quick approval at the bank.

"No. Not Rosita." He shrugs off the jacket of his dark grey suit tossing it beside him before standing to block my path.

His presence and his smell loom in my intimate space, and immediately I misplaced my line of thought. Tilting his head he shifts sideways to peer at his notes over my shoulder. My eyes lifts towards his Adam's apple, gauging whether or not the old desire to trace my fingertip along the curving line of his neck still sparked somewhere in some 'Rick Grimes' pocket of my heart.

"In the words of Miss Clara Josephine herself," he drawls, "those two girls were polar opposites. Night and day. Fire and ice. It was mission impossible for the two to get along."

"Okay…"

I glance up to catch him staring at me. Our connecting gazes linger. His slightly golden complexion, highlighted by the graying temples and stubble framing his handsome face draw me right in. And those eyes? His eyes are like glass. Captivating.

I thought about my false declaration to him all day. Reassuring him that yes, "We were good," should encourage him to focus on doing the task at hand, the job for which he was hired, instead of obsessing about regaining what we shared in the past. And yes, I know he's obsessing about the failure of our relationship because I could see it in his blue marble eyes. Wistfully looking at me. I wish he would stop. A thick sadness suddenly seeps throughout my rib cage and threatens to leak out.

Throwing my attentions towards Deanna's Christmas cactus, my hands place the yellow paged pad back into his possession, and my feet sought some safe distance. As of late, my life has been one catastrophe after another and if I'm not careful, Rick Grimes and I could easily combust.

"The money came from someone else?"

His eyes narrow with my movements as I pretend to fuss with the flowers, but I ignore the question behind his obvious surveillance.

"Someone, or someplace else," he says, bypassing the weirdness between us. "Daryl's looking into her financials first thing in the morning."

"And Josy's father?"

"Annabella never spoke about him. Not even once. Her mother suspects that things ended badly and that's why her daughter made a sudden retreat to her childhood home. Once Miss Josephine asked for the man's name at least, but Annabella's only response was that he's trouble and not to ask anything about him again because he was no longer a part of her life. However, there is someone who was spending more and more time with her younger daughter. Even Josy talked about him all the time. Apparently he's a strange one. A Mr. Eugene Porter. Works at the Super Green pharmacy just across the street from the beauty salon."

"So what's our next move?"

"If I could, I'd like to talk to this Mr. Porter."

"Okay. You should still have a sit down with Rosita, right? Wouldn't hurt to cover all our bases?"

"Agreed, It wouldn't hurt." Smiling, he pulls off his tie and untucks his shirt. "What's that I'm smelling?" He sucks in a gut full of air.

"Sweet potato casserole. With marshmallows on top. You're mother's trying to fatten me up."

He winks. "Nothing wrong with that."

I shake my head biting back a smile. I really need to get out of this house.

€….€

One hour, a casserole dinner, and two stories about Carl's paranoid science teacher later, I am at the kitchen sink again washing up the dishes despite Rick's objections. Both him and his mother worked hard today on my behalf, it's the least I could do to show my gratitude.

Lingering at the island guzzling his second beer he asks, "You notice anything out of the ordinary today?"

Confused, I glimpse at him over my shoulder. "With?"

"With my mother? You know she's taking meds and what not for her memory?"

I nod. "She was fine." For the most part. I don't go into details. As a matter of fact, I'm mindful not to encourage lengthy discussions outside of my case.

It is commendable though, how he hasn't turned his back on his mother, regardless of his insincere ways of the past. Packing up from Virginia to move back here instead of paying someone else to take up his trouble, signals the depths of his sense of duty and devotion.

Not that Deanna is any trouble. Not much, not really. Except earlier in the day, when she'd left the kitchen for the bathroom, it took her 15 minutes to remember where it was. Thank goodness she didn't have an accident. Can't imagine how embarrassed she would've been. Perhaps this should be mentioned to Rick, but with vehemence the prideful woman made me promise to keep the incident to myself. If, however, it happens again tomorrow, which I am sure it will, then for her safety I'll have no choice. She'd probably be annoyed, but saving face is not worth the risk.

Without warning something warm presses into the dip of my spine, my heart jumped.

"You update your mother today on the break-in?" Rick whispers above my head.

When did he creep up behind me? "Yes," I say, clipped, short, no explanations.

"And Principal Jones…think he might give you another week? We need more time to figure this out."

"No. He wouldn't." My voice has gotten smaller.

Maintaining his position, Rick proceeds to chit chat about his son and his schoolwork, Deanna's doctor's appointments, his other cases at work. And all the while I was aware of nothing else but the presence of his hand on my lower back. I kept my head low, staring at the soapy dish in the sink, paralyzed. Two seconds, and just like that I'm sixteen again. I didn't even like this guy, much less have 'feelings' for him anymore. Yet, an unexpected shiver skitters the length of my spine. Why?

"Hey, you okay?" he asks. "You zoned out there for a minute."

"I'm listening."

"You're always listening. But that's not what I asked?"

"Sure. I'm doing great." The sensation of his touch finally falls away and I am released. Strangely though, I miss his warmth.

I finish rinse the last plate and grab a towel to dry my hands. Facing him now I could see him analyzing my disposition. "What?"

"Nothing just…" he tilts his bottle into his mouth, "…you used to be so open to me is all."

Busted. I take in a deep breath measuring my next few words. Ticking him off is not going to do me any good. So, I decide to play ignorant. "Meaning..."

"Meaning…" he sighs and shrugs.

I throw the towel on to the counter and fold my arms waiting. A minute goes by before either of us says something. Wow, really? It's me who finally breaks the silence.

"Rick," I begin with caution, "I'm not _her_ anymore. You do realize that, don't you?"

"And I'm not _him_ either," he shoots back. "Thought we were gonna move forward. Thought you agreed we were good. But I don't think you're even trying. "

"How can you think it's that simple?"

"Because it is. If only you could just cut me some slack, quit giving me a hard time, maybe we could get to know each other again."

"For what?" My arms drop in frustration. "Just do your job, that's all I want. It's the only reason I'm here. You said you'd help me get my life back."

Incredulity darkens his eyes and rocks his jaw shut. The look of a man, a boy, used to getting what he wants. My stomach twists. Jesus. Disappointing him still irks me. How? It's not my responsibility to ease whatever residual guilt he has. I am burdened with more than enough regret of my own.

Making a huge arc to get around him I retrieve my black sweater and decide to go for a walk. Even though I promised not to go to my house, I still do. A car is waiting out front in my driveway: It's Shane.

Great. From one past mistake to the next.

It takes a few moments to realize however, that he's not sitting behind the wheel. Rather, he's chilling out in the dark on my unlit porch. I am too old for this crazy shit so I turn and walk away, not bothering to dodge the puddles of water on the pavement.

"Hey, I've been calling you. Where you been?" He sprints behind me, imploring that I stop for a minute. In a flash he grabs my arm and forces me to look at him.

"Don't touch me," I cry out.

Letting go he holds his palms up in surrender. "Not gonna hurt you. I just wanna know if you're okay."

With my stubborn refusal to answer, Shane proceeds to ramble on about his hurtful behavior. Says he knows he was wrong for how I've been treated, and that I'm right for walking away from him. The second time he reaches for my hands I don't resist. As he claims that his love for me is what makes him so crazy, I one hundred percent don't trust or believe a word he says.

He nods his head towards my place and asks where I'm staying.

"A friend from church." A half lie. Not the absolute truth. Whatever, that's my business.

"I won't mind helping you clean up the place, if you haven't gotten around to it." Shane interlaces my fingers with his, and suddenly starts reminiscing about the summer he helped me paint the porch. Asking if I remember the bees from Roger's, my neighbor, tree that attacked him.

"One bee, Shane," I furrow my brows. "And you complained the whole time about the color of the paint."

He chuckles. "What the hell is periwinkle pink anyway? It's just dang lilac."

I look at him perplexed. When he sees I am not going down that path with him his face goes solemn, then shifts to an icy glare. My skin prickles.

Not sure what this moment is, I untangle my hands from his and shuffle backwards. A sudden stiff wind hits against my neck causing me to shiver. My arms wrap around my body instinctively, shielding from Shane's cold stare as well as the night's chill. "I should go."

"Yeah, okay. Give you a ride?"

"No, I'm good."

He nods. "For what it's worth Michonne, you're the only woman who understood me. You never tried to change the man I am."

"Maybe…but you've never understood me," I reply. "And that's not your fault. It's mine. Because with you, I honestly was trying to be someone else." Not the woman who helplessly watched her only child suffer and die. Not the woman who abandoned her grieving husband, shattering his already broken heart. And not the woman who has had betrayal, pain and regret as constant foes her entire life.

I tell Shane to go home, that I'll see him around. And again _I_ was the one who was sorry for everything.

He jumps into his vehicle and drives off. A sense of relief engulfs me; I start to breathe again.

As I approach the end of my block, making my way back, my stomach drops. Rick 'the Viking' is standing there. With his arms locked across his chest, he's not looking at me, but beyond me into the distance. I turn. His focus is zoned in on the rear view lights of Shane's red Mustang car.

Emotionally listless, I am ill-equipped for yet another confrontation. I brush pass him and head back to his house. His footsteps follow me all the way in silence. Once inside, he even trails me to the guest room. I try to close the door in his face without saying goodnight, but Rick stuns me as he pulls me into his arms, cradles my head, and lowers his mouth to my ear.

"I'm sorry," he says.

A different sensation tingles my skin.


	6. Chapter 5

_**~...~**_

 _ **Chapter**_

 ** _Five_**

 _RICK_

I knock on Michonne's door at 7 a.m. armed with a fresh cup of coffee.

"Hey." As soon as she peeks her sleepy head out, I quickly press the peace offering into her hands: Creamer, three sugars, and one too many dashes of cinnamon, if my memory from yesterday morning serves me correctly.

"Hi. Um, thank you." Her raspy soft voice indicates she truly just rolled out of bed.

"About last night," I say, holding her confused gaze, "I'd like for us to have a do over."

"Rick," she sighs, "It's fine, really."

"No, it's not. Drink that, get dressed, and let's go. Carl's already waiting."

"Wait. Where are we going?"

"Taking you to see Rosita Espinosa and Eugene Porter. We're gonna get your life back."

Her jaw goes slightly slack with disbelief.

"Be careful with that now, it's hot. I'm giving you fifteen minutes, don't be too long."

Looking every bit the librarian in a blue and white polka dot spring dress and cardigan, Michonne, twenty-two minutes later, hustles out of the house and jumps into my car, the engine is already running.

Strapping on her seatbelt Michonne focuses on me with uncertainty. "Are you sure about this?"

I nod and back out of my driveway. Guilt pricked me from the look of frustrated exhaustion on her face last night. I should be making things easier, not harder for her.

Unlike yesterday, no April showers are in sight today. Trinity Hills is picture perfect with clear sunny skies the same soft elegant blue as Michonne's outfit.

When I decided to invite her to have a more active part in the murder investigation, I wanted to show her that my motives are sincere. That she could, and should, continue to put her trust in me. Was I hoping to benefit from the unforeseen circumstances that threw us together? Yes. I admit that I did. That I still do. There's no doubt in my mind that we can overcome and repair our broken relationship. But downplaying the seriousness of the transgressions, and making her feel obligated to move forward was wrong. I have to allow the healing of our inner cuts and bruises to occur naturally. That's how we started off in the first place. Simple, instinctive and organic.

Carl, suddenly leans forward from reclining in the backseat. "Hey, Miss Moretti?"

She angles her head to the side. "For the umpteenth time sweetie, just Michonne is fine. I get enough of 'Miss Moretti' at my school."

"Sorry. Forgot. But um I wanted to ask you something…about my dad. What was he like back in high school?"

She smiles at me and wiggles her nose. Asking for permission.

"Knock yourself out," I reply.

"Well Carl," she taps a finger at the side of her chin in mock deliberation, "Hmm, what can I say?"

"Anything, once you keep it PG," I warn with a smile.

She chuckles. "Okay, let's see. Your Dad was…a great student, popular, and quite the athlete."

Carl shoots off another question like a news reporter getting a scoop. "Really? And how'd you two become friends? I mean I asked him already and he said you two just clicked. Is that true? Was it easy to get along because, I don't know, you guys had a lot in common or something?"

Out of the corner of my eye I catch her glimpse in my direction, biting on her bottom lip.

"Mmhm. We did," she admits.

"Yeah, like what?" Carl badgers.

I grin at her. Now it's my turn to request permission to divulge a bit of our personal history. She grins back and shrugs her shoulders like, 'Why not?'

"Michonne and I…loved poetry," I confess, glancing at my boy in the rear view mirror.

"What? Dad are you serious?"

Michonne spins around to face him. "And what is wrong with poetry? It's the beautiful and intense expressions of the human experience and soul."

"I guess. For a girl."

She throws her head back and laughs. Awesome. "Oh, you have so much to learn little man."

The free flow of traffic has slowed down considerably as I drive closer to Carl's school. Usually it's an annoyance especially when I'm just a few blocks away, but this morning the banter between Michonne and my son has me most entertained.

"What else did you guys have in common?" he continues his inquisition.

Michonne shrugs. "Lots of things. Rick and I preferred lakes to beaches. Sunsets to sunrises. And…"

"And the quiet company of each other to the incessant chatter of other people," I add. "Still do. All of it. We understood each other without having to say much of anything." My focus slides away from the line of cars ahead to the beauty next to me. "Isn't that right?"

She squints her eyes and shakes her head with disapproval. "Yeah, something like that."

I laugh. Oh boy, I'm in trouble. But it's nice to know that I can still tell what she's thinking.

I can't remember how precisely Michonne and I became friends, but I remember feeling shocked by how quickly we'd become emotionally attached. I loved to be apart of everyone's circles, but anything I learned from my lunatic father was the wisdom in safeguarding your true self. Michonne, however, she snuck past my defenses. It never occurred to me that a bond between a girl like her and a guy like myself, with our differing backgrounds, was possible, far less this long lasting.

"Alright buddy, we're here." I announce when at last my car pulls up in front of the public school's entrance.

"Have a good one Carl," Michonne says, "And don't give Miss Cloyd too much trouble. Just enough to keep her on her toes."

He chuckles. "Sure thing, _Michonne._ See you later?"

She nods. "Later."

As soon as my 5ft 2" son is swallowed up by the influx of students through the large metal doors, I drive off.

I could feel Michonne's eyes studying me for awhile before she asks, "You set me up, didn't you?"

"No, I did not." Which is the absolute truth. I had no idea Carl would spontaneously launch into an all-out interrogation.

"Well he's a precocious little boy."

"That he is," I concede. "Carl is special."

She leans back on her headrest with a solemnness. "Be good to him. He admires you so much."

"I'm trying my best." And I hope I'm succeeding. After allowing our family to fall apart and re-locating him from Waynesboro, Virginia, the only home he'd known, to Trinity Hills Georgia, Carl's safety, well-being, and happiness is my number one purpose in this life. He has always been my top priority, but now so more than ever I have to be there for him, as his Mom lives hundreds of miles away.

Daring to broach the sensitive subject of children I say, "Michonne…you know I haven't had the chance before to say this to you, but um, I'm truly sorry for what happened with your kid. I don't have the details, but all the same, going through something like that must've been unbearable."

Her body folds a little and she goes quiet.

"You mind if I ask how it happened."

A shadow clouds over her face and by the time she speaks her voice is distant, mechanical, and somewhat trained. As though she's reciting from a report about a random person.

Seven years ago, during a week long visit to her family here in Georgia, Andre apparently had fallen ill with what her and her husband believed to be a simple cold. For a couple of days her kid had a fever and was lethargic, and it was a task to get him to eat much or even get up out of bed. Typical symptoms for anyone out with the flu, she said. But then, his breathing changed, it weakened and that's when they rushed him to the hospital. Once there, doctors quickly diagnosed him as having pneumonia and put him on a steady round of drips.

After three hours, Andre was, thankfully, feeling better. Smiling, giggling, and chatting like his usual self. But then his chit chat, some hours later, turned into gibberish. The nurses said it was nothing to be concerned about, more than likely the little tyke was just tired, and Michonne and her husband accepted that seemingly logical explanation. Thirty-six minutes passed when Andre drifted off to sleep and never woke up again.

Only afterwards was it discovered that sepsis had set in. His body was attacking itself. He had blood poisoning due to an infection and the doctors never caught it until it was way too late.

My fists tightened around the steering wheel. How does one find the will to go on after something so tragic? Michonne must have incredible inner strength to pull herself together and move on.

Reaching over I give her shoulder a quick squeeze. "I can't imagine experiencing such a tragedy and overcoming it."

"I haven't," she admits. "I'm just living with it."

"How? Why aren't you isolated somewhere, wallowing in a dark corner, going crazy?"

I can tell she's processing my curiosity. "I was, for a long time. But I read books, drove back and forth to a support group in Atlanta three times a week, and volunteered for 'Grief Survivors Circle' : a community of parents who have all lost children. We share advice and offer support to each other, support you can't really get from individuals who have never experienced that particular type of hell."

A new sense of admiration for her fills me. No inflections of bitterness or anger in her voice, just calm acceptance in order to live on.

"Also," she adds, "I started spending time with Shane."

My jaw sets at the mention of that idiot's name. But I'm determined to keep a neutral face.

"What?"

Looks like I failed. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to," she smiles. "You're giving me that look. That Rick Grimes 'Are you out of your goddamned mind?' look."

"Wow. That's a mouthful. Show it to me."

She narrows her eyes considerably she can't even see. Then she tilts her head so far like her neck is about to break off and arches a brow.

"What the hell is that? I have never in my life made a face like that. "

"Oh, come on Grimes. Yes, you do it all the time. Just like this. Look." She points at her face, making that deranged mock expression again. I start to laugh.

"You look like you're holding something in and you're about to explode if you don't let it out."

"Oh just forget it." We laugh together, and it's nice. "I can't—I can't do it like you. Anyway, you think I lowered my standards being with Walsh, don't you?

"Does it matter what I think?"

"No. Of course not." Her sparkling gaze turns away from me too soon. "I'm a grown wo-man, I do what-ever I want…" she croons, and shimmies her shoulders.

"Oh yeah girl, I can see that."

She attempts to give me a scolding look but her face quickly breaks into a broad smile. "Rick stop playing."

"Sorry," I apologize, for my lame effort at being sassy.

"But um, you know," she returns her stare out of her window, "if you wanna tell me what you think...I wouldn't mind."

Really? Knowing full well I am not in any position to hold judgement over Michonne and her choices, maybe swallowing my opinions would be best. Even if she's giving me the go-ahead.

Needless to say, I have never ever taken too kindly to the likes of Shane _'He-Man_ ' Walsh. He was always a pain in the ass, misogynistic prick, whose sense of entitlement was above and beyond my comprehension. Even up to this day. Since moving back home, we have had a couple of encounters and I have seen first hand just how much of a dipshit he still is.

To lean on him for companionship? Michonne still isn't one to burden her family with her problems, so…

"I think…he was a friend in your time of need," I assume.

"He was," she sighs.

"But then? You fell in-love?"

With a swift glance a rueful expression flashes in her eyes, and that's my cue to just drop the subject.

€...€

A mullet-wearing, thick neck, oval shaped man with a perpetual frown was not what I was expecting when the Super Green pharmacy's elderly cashier pointed us in the direction of a Mr. Porter. After I introduced myself and Michonne, I assured the skeptical gentleman that any knowledge he's willing to share concerning Annabella Espinosa would be greatly appreciated as Michonne and I are "assisting" the police department with their search for his friend's killer.

In response to my query as to the nature of his relationship with Miss Espinosa, with a measure of pride, he proceeds to give a detailed description of how they'd first met. Desperate one night, the overwrought mother rushed into the dispensary hunting for a specific brand of cold medicine for her infant who'd been quite ill at the time. After he'd provided efficient and effective assistance, two days later she'd returned to express her gratitude. Ever since they'd become fast friends.

Mr. Porter raves about having the privilege of getting to know the real Annabella—sweet, hardworking, and just a plain nice girl who was obsessed with being a good Mom.

"Did she ever mention to you particulars about her life in the past?" Michonne asks. Up until this point she'd been quietly listening and observing, letting me take the lead with my line of questioning. "Specifically, the time she lived in Atlanta?"

"Oh no," Mr. Porter responds. "That topic was totally off limits Ma'am. But there were a couple of times when she'd been on very disturbing phone calls with some dude named Logan. He even came by the shop one time when I happened to be there waiting to take her and Josy out for ice-cream. I'd overheard a part of their conversation and my Bella was most upset. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop or nothing but she said something about living up to her end of the bargain, and that _she knows she wouldn't have the life she had now without him so he shouldn't bother threatening her._ "

I scribble as fast as I can everything he's saying but the brother is talking a mile a minute.

"And you weren't eavesdropping?" Michonne asks not masking her doubtfulness.

"No Ma'am," Mr. Porter says, "Just couldn't help but over hear is all. I did not like how irritated my girl was getting."

"Did you tell all of this to the detectives?" I inquire.

"Yes Sir," the pharmacist nods emphatically. "Gave a description of his physical features and everything."

"Which are?" The man's small eyes turned to slits with hesitation at my question. "I saw the report Mr. Porter, just verifying the information given coincides."

"Just tell us." Michonne pushes.

"Six feet tall, mid-forties, Caucasian, silver beard with dark spectacles. That's the extent of my knowledge. And like I said, his name was Logan…or Raegan or something like that. Don't recall exactly. We weren't formally introduced and what not. "

"Thank you," I say, continuing to take notes. To wrap up the brief interview I ask one final question. "You say Annabella refused to talk to you about her life before… Does that include who Josy's father is and where he's at? Reason why I'm asking is that this man who murdered your girl seemed to have a personal vendetta against her."

His face turns red. "She never, ever wanted to share anything about that man. But I didn't insist. I figure his loss was my gain… still can't believe she's gone. Bella was a real class act. Unlike that sister of hers. She had such potty mouth."

"You've met Rosita?" Michonne arched a brow.

"That's correct. On a couple of occasions. But boy did those two hate each other. One evening at a cookout at her Mama's house they got into a real heated-ass argument, and Rosita made a nasty comment about the _basura_ Annabella brought back home to the Hills with her. I don't know if Bella ever confided in anyone, but it seems clear to me that her big sister may know something about her younger sibling's time in Atlanta. Might wanna check up on that."

"Thank you Mr. Porter. We intend to."

€...€

On our way back to Burkeside, we stop at a Korean deli to grab a bite to eat. After deliberating for ten minutes over a chicken salad sandwich or a Turkey with Swiss, Michonne and I settle on a twelve-inch Italian combo and split it, half-half.

"Maybe you're right," I say, my mouth full of delicious ham, capicola, salami, pepperoni and provolone cheese. "Maybe I do expect you to be Michonne Moretti from high school. I see the same face, the same smile, and I don't know…I can't help it."

She pauses just before taking another nibble of her overstuffed sandwich and peers at me from across the square metal table of the deli's outside sitting area.

"Is it the same for you? When you look at me?"

Her eyes close and she sighs, "Yeah. Maybe. Why Rick, is this so important to you, us becoming friends again?"

"Why?" I tilt my head from side to side contemplating the ramifications of answering that question with 100% honesty. "Why not? I mean, come on…despite the bullshit, we had something good. Something real." Trying to understand my intentions, I could see on her face a bit of regret, a bit of sadness, and I lower my gaze knowing my mistreatment of her was the cause of those feelings. "Our friendship, or whatever you wanna call it, was one of the realest relationships I have ever had in my whole life." And that included the one with Lori, but I keep that bit to myself. "It can't just be me, can it, who remembers that?" I place my sandwich down and dust my fingers, "Listen, I'm not gonna lie to you but I could really use some more good in my life right now. Understand? I could—I could use a friend Michonne is all I'm asking. Of course, you know it's totally up to you, if it's something you'd want."

The day is getting warmer and people are lingering on the sidewalk enjoying the mid morning's light breeze. Michonne strips off her sweater, slips out of her shoes, and finishes her sandwich before she speaks again. "What if I told you no, that I don't want what we had before?"

I take a deep, hopeful breath, holding it in. "A fresh start?"

"Yeah. A fresh start."

The air rushes out my lungs in relief. "Even better. I think that's a fantastic idea, I'm all for it."

A smirk dances in her expression at my reaction to getting what I want. "Of course you are Rick, of course you are."

"If I tell you three things I've discovered about myself over the years, you're gonna have to do the same. Deal?"

"This is your plan Grimes? Playing twenty questions?"

"Not questions. Stating facts. And not twenty. Just three. Come on…you can handle three."

Shaking her head in amusement, she sighs. "Fine. I'll do three."

I straighten in my seat. "Darts - I'm good at it."

She giggles.

"Gardening – I'm starting to appreciate it, but not my forte. And liquor - other than beer, I'm not much of a fan as I used to be before. I'll indulge once, twice a year tops. Gives me blinding headaches."

"That's it? Real profound Grimes. I'm impressed."

"Don't be a snob, you're up."

"Geez Rick seriously?"

"Hey, you agreed, quit stalling." I nudge her elbow.

"O-kay! Feel like I'm on the clock here." She clears her throat. "One: I have developed a knack for interior design."

"Like your Mother."

"Like my mother. Two: I also happen to appreciate gardening and I'm not good at it, but I am exceptional, thank you very much. And three: I definitely still drink the hard stuff, not just beer, and most certainly more than just once for the year."

"Wait," my eyes narrow at her, "you can't just copy from me."

"Did I? Tough. You didn't specify the rules of your game my friend."

"Damn. I think you missed your calling. Should've been a lawyer like your father wanted."

"Yeah well rebel without a cause and all that. Are we done?" Her focus has switched to slipping her feet into her slingbacks.

"Jesus, you're gonna make me work hard aren't you?"

"You had it too easy when we were younger. I know better now. Besides, I confided about Andre and about Shane that should be enough for today." She leans forward to tug the straps up over her heels.

My eyes follow and trail further along her curvaceous, toned calves.

"And don't say the Lord's name in vain. I don't like it."

In that instant, an inappropriate image flashes before my eyes of the time I made her scream out the Lord's name in vain. And she damn well liked that.

 _No Rick, down boy,_ I admonish myself, _don't go there_. Michonne made me promise not to ever speak, or mention, or think about that experience again. As I lead her back to the car, I lock away the memory along with its bittersweet emotions. Tucking it inside the metal box of secrets in my mind, hidden beneath a special compartment labeled: "The Summer Michonne Moretti broke my heart."

€…€

At FTB bank, Michonne has to wait awhile before getting to speak with her former loans officer. There's a heavy flow of customers and she doesn't have an appointment so she takes a number, sits, and waits for her turn.

In the meantime, I use the opportunity to have a chat of my own with a customer service representative, sure to keep Michonne in my line of sight the entire time.

Seated opposite an eager employee-of-the-month whose nameplate says Paul but he insists I use his nickname Jesus, so we can _keep things cash._

 _'Whatever dude.'_

I question him about the requirements to open a safety deposit box, what box sizes are available, how much are the annual fees and key rates, and what policies and procedures are in place, in case someone unexpectedly dies. Whilst gathering information, Michonne, suddenly, bolts out the front door. Without giving it a second thought I curtly excuse myself and take off after her.

"I can't believe this," Michonne says flustered, as soon as I track her down in the parking lot. "It's her. She has all of my personal information on file including my social security, and my address. That's how this guy found me."

"I don't understand. How do you know that?" I ask, baffled by her absolute certainty. She hardly spent ten minutes with the woman.

Pacing, she recounts how it didn't take Rosita long at all before she directly asked her if Annabella said or did anything strange before she succumbed to her injuries. When Michonne responded, _I don't know what you mean by strange. I was too distracted by her gagging for breath while she bled to death_ , Miss Espinosa's expression fell, remorseful.

"Suddenly, she started pulling forms asking me if I'd like to apply for another loan. A bigger one, where I could take that trip to Paris she'd remembered I'd mentioned during one visit before. She told me that it wouldn't be much of a hassle as last time, she could simply put in a word with the manager to bypass the formalities for quick approval. When I asked, _Today?_ Miss Espinosa replied, _Yes. If you'd like. And you're lucky because Mr. Negan just came back from a three day sick leave."_

"Mr. Negan?" I shrug my shoulders at the unfamiliar name.

She comes to a standstill. "Yes, their Branch manager. Apparently, he loves helping people. And she's sure he can help me too, as a favor for her. Rick, she asked if we could meet up for coffee to talk in private later."

"What did you say?"

"Told her I'd have to consider it. Both the coffee and the loan, and then I rushed out. Don't you see? Check your notes. Logan slash Reagan is really Negan. Eugene Porter heard wrong. Somehow Rosita's boss was involved with her sister."

Her mouth is drawn into a straight line and she's biting her lip, understandably upset. But I tell her not to jump to conclusions. We'll figure out if there's any real possible connections later on tonight. Whatever theory we come up with, tomorrow, Daryl and I would gather concrete proof before into the police department with our suspicions.

* * *

 _MICHONNE_

Everything about today has hit me for six.

First off, Rick going against his own decision to keep me "hidden" was both surprising and borderline suspicious. Especially with regards to how our last conversation played out I never would've expected this. But, at the end of the day, despite my being attentive to, and aware of, everything that was being said and done, we had a win.

And it felt good.

Which leads me to the second shock: Letting my defenses down a smidgen wasn't as terrible as I'd imagined it would've been. There was genuine interest from Rick to just pull back and, like he said, have a _do over_. Rick was giving me what I wanted—to have an active role in the case—And truthfully, his gesture was appreciated. Besides, it's exhausting being pissed and guarded all of the time. I'm not made of stone. But, I'm not gullible either. My willingness to open up about my life was just a means to an end.

Lastly, the third phenomenon that really made my head spin was the revelation that Rosita Espinosa is possibly linked to not just my home being vandalized, but also the actual murder of her own sister.

"Look at this," Rick says. He's handing me a photo of Mr. Negan Vincenzo printed from an online profile. "Fit Porter's description, right?"

"Yeah, it sure does, except no beard."

"If I get a positive I.d. from him tomorrow I'll have Daryl track down as much info as he can and we can start in that direction. Sounds good?"

I nod.

Rick swipes away some crumbs from my chin and I had to fight against my body's reaction.

Right now, sitting side by side on the living room floor with our backs against the couch, Rick and I try to piece together all of our findings including that of his buddy Daryl's. However, the daunting reality remains that for my own self-preservation I need to keep Rick Grimes at arm's length.

Piece of chocolate cake, right? If I could remain focused on figuring out this convoluted case, keep my just as confusing emotions for this man at bay, and maintain a high level of professionalism with him, I could make it out on the other side unscathed. Simple.

' _High level of professionalism huh? While in a jeans and a tank top drinking beers together under this dimly lit chandelier at ten o' clock in the night? Girrrl.'_

Okay, okay. Truth: The fact that he's still so damned good looking is not helping.

His incredible smile, marked by boyish charm yet brimming with manly confidence, can make _any_ woman at _any_ age blush. I can't help it. Every time my gaze bounces into his, or our fingers accidentally brush each other's, a zing rips right through my heart.

But, so far, no descent into any sort of arguments have taken place. So…another win?

'Half-crazy' by Musiq Soulchild starts to play. When I glanced at my phone and didn't answer, Rick snatches the cell to see who it is I'm ignoring. It was the fourth time I'd refused to pick up.

"What the hell does Shane want?" His brashness has me flabbergasted. "If he broke up with you, why on earth is he still coming around, calling you at this hour?"

Damn! I snatch my phone back. "Mind your business."

"As your attorney, I _am_ minding my business. Does my client require a restraining order?"

' _But what the…'_

My ears must be deceiving me. Lord, give me strength. This man is really trying my patience. My eyes narrow at him. "No, I do not. Besides _he_ didn't break up with _me_."

His hard expression retreats, replaced by one of confusion. Whatever he's heard from Deanna is an altered version of the truth which I personally fed her.

Shane proposed to me about three times during our four year courtship before I accepted. And that was because he was so nonchalant about it. The first time we were binge watching Brooklyn Nine-nine, and the second we'd just finished having sex. Casually, on both instances, he'd said, _This is nice. This is great. We should get married._ After a good chuckle I said, _For what? I'm already always here in your house anyway._

The third time, he went all out: Bought flowers, an actual ring, and took me to the Mayor's ball. Accompanied by a live band Shane proposed wanting to finally make things official in front of all his Daddy's big wig friends. Only then it dawned on me that the dude was serious. Despite my better judgement, I said yes.

"I'm not perfect," I reply. "I've made bad choices. He's not the first man I've been wrong about."

"Same," Rick sets an empty beer bottle down on the floor, "I've been wrong about people too."

"Women?" I clarify.

"One, woman." He nods, cuts his eyes at me. And I level my stare right back.

This is the equivalent of a full blown cuss out between the two of us. Tension is crackling in the air.

I take a swig of my Coors Light, ignoring him. He is not going to get the best of me. MmMm. I don't care how handsome he is tonight.

No jacket, crisp white shirt untucked, collar buttons undone, sleeves rolled up, shoes off… so disheveled it's delicious. "Why are you asking me about him again in any case? I already told you."

Rick shrugs. "Just curious. What made Shane so special? You did agree to marry him." He chuckles but doesn't look at me. This is a loaded question.

"What do you want me to say? He made me laugh. Was very charming and I was trying new things. When he asked me out, I said yeah sure why not, and part of it was that the quiet in my home started to drive me insane." That bitch loneliness got the better of me. "Also I…I wasn't moving forward. Not fast enough anyway. Felt like I couldn't on my own because I'd blown it completely with Zeke." The first and only man not to make me doubt myself by loving me through and through.

"Think I could relate." Nodding his head, Rick leans forward and grabs another bottle from the case on the coffee table. " 'Alone, all alone,'" he says, twisting off the cap, " 'Nobody, but nobody, can make it out here all alone. Now…if you listen closely, I'll tell you what I know. Storm clouds are gathering. The wind is gonna blow…'"

He looks directly into my eyes and pinches my chin. The familiar words make my lips curl into a smile. We recite the end of the old poem together.

'The race of man is suffering.

And I can hear the moan.

'Cause nobody,

But nobody,

Can make it out here alone.'

I jab his arm with my elbow. "Since when do you like Ms. Angelou? Mr. 'Wordsworth my guy'?"

"Since sophomore year at UVA, my English professor was obsessed. Made her books mandatory reading. I had no choice."

"Well your professor did a good job 'cause you still remember."

"Yeah well, Maya Angelou's a genius. I know that now." He knocks his right foot against my left. "Still reading poetry?"

"Sometimes."

"Written any lately?"

"No. Not lately. Not in a long while."

"You never did used to let me read your journal of poems. Not even one. I didn't like that—You holding back from me."

So self absorbed. He felt like I owed him everything. "Some things are private."

"Not from me." His arm drapes over the left knee he has bent to his chest, whilst his right leg remains stretched out next to mine.

I poke the side of his jaw. "Especially from you," because most were about you. "What can I say? Nothing wrong with a little mystery Grimes. If we were to be completely honest right now, I'm damn sure you kept secrets from me too. Like now. You have me spilling my guts today, but what about you? What happened to your marriage?" That might be a touchy subject, but I expect him to give me something anyway.

"I forced myself to believe that she was the type of girl I had to be with, because it was expected. I did love her, but a make believe version of her. If that makes any sense. We tried to change each other. Daily routines, stress and demands of our jobs, differing views on finances, raising Carl, it all culminated into us drifting from one another. Sometimes I'm in a bad mood, some times she's too tired, so we stopped being intimate with each other. Before I could pull my way back to my wife, it was too late."

"Too late how?" Turning to face him, I fold my legs into a lotus position, and can't help but notice the look of vulnerability in his blue gaze.

Then he confesses, "I cheated on her, Michonne. With a co-worker—a secretary of the firm." He winces but I keep my expression open. "Such an embarrassing cliché. Instead of talking openly with Lori, doing the work of making my marriage last, I threw away our entire relationship, destroyed my family, for a 15 minute screw on a copy machine late one night."

Rick is right. It is such a cliché. But when one allows distance to grow within a marriage it almost always results in betrayal. My own parents taught me that lesson from a very young age. "Was it any good?" I joke, letting him know I'm not here to judge.

"Of course not.. It was distasteful. And she was loud like a rhinoceros in labour."

I can't help but cackle. "Oh god Rick, what?!"

He smiles. "Saw that on animal planet with Carl." He guzzles down half of his drink and sets the rest aside. "Twenty-three year old blonde with a writer boyfriend named Hans who loved puppies and skittles and who she suspected was probably gay."

Stretching back out his left leg, Rick winces and grabs at his knee.

"You're doing it wrong," I say, watching him haphazardly squeeze and nudge at his old injury. "No. Place your left hand above your knee, and press firmly with the palm of your right."

But he wasn't listening, I could see pain and frustration hardening his features. Why are men so macho and pig headed when it came to treatment?

Moved with pity, I kneel between his legs, place my hands around the joint, and take over massaging the ligament. "Here. No, like this."

He grabs my wrist. "I can take care of it."

"No, you can't." I smack his hands off resuming the technique. "Don't be stubborn. Let me do it," I order. It wasn't a difficult task, just takes practice and patience to effectively get it right. I gently begin to massage forward a couple of inches until I can grasp his muscle between my fingers and thumb. "Listen, I should tell you thank you for today. You were right. About everything. Hopefully tomorrow we could take what we've learned to the cops." I glance up to discover his head rolled back, his eyes closed, and his countenance completely relaxed and serene.

For a few moments I hold my breath to absorb the specimen. A small scar etched just below his right eye doesn't diminish but only adds to his appeal. Rugged features define his jaw and his neck where a light trail of brown hair peeks out from the opening of his shirt, teasing as to what's hidden underneath.

 _'Why would you want to know?'_

Why indeed. As a matter of fact, I don't. Neither one of us has intentions of going down that road. I would have to be out of my damned mind. It would be illogical and downright stupid.

"Does it feel better?" I ask, refocusing on the task.

"Somewhat," he groans.

"Just wait. You'll see." Strangely enough I feel pleased. Lifting his knee higher I then guide him to slowly stretch it back out. "Really Rick, this should be done twice a day, and a knee band would do wonders."

He grunts. I look up and he's watching me. I am suddenly self-aware. His pointed expression makes my hands cease and retreat. "Just trying to help is all. Sorry."

"No it's...You were gentle. It felt good. Thank you."

"No problem."

His gaze slides down my body, returns to my eyes flickering with salient interest, and draws me in. No. I should get up and remove myself from this god forsaken temptation. But I don't. Instead I dare to engage in a staring match with my ex-best friend, admiring the tender slope of his gorgeous eyes, mapping out the curve of his pouty lips and wondering if the feel of his mouth against mine would shock me to my core like it once did twenty years ago.

Hold on. What is going on here? What has happened to my resolve to keep Rick at arms length? Nothing. My racing pulse is just a momentary lapse in judgement.

With that notion, I blink away. Time to nip this in the bud and head for bed.

As though my re-surging resolution is written clear across my face, Rick angles forward stretching from his slouched position, to fix his hands on either side of my hips. In a fluid motion, he tugs me onto his lap and a jolt of electricity from the pit of my stomach jump starts my heart. I don't know precisely what sort of man Rick has become, but he doesn't strike me as someone so forward. I'm stunned.

Before I could push off from him, his forearm hooks around my waist and traps me firmly against his chest. The rush I feel in this barricade is palpable. Dazed, my eyes fall shut, and I inhale a deep breath, as his other hand snakes its way to the nape of my neck. He then sinks his fingers into my hair and my whole body vibrates.

"From the moment I first saw you again," he whispers, "all of this came flooding back. This Michonne..." His thumb caresses my jaw. "...And this." He kisses my neck. "I'm not the only one who feels it, am I?"

All coherent thought for my part has dissipated.

"Am I?"

"This isn't real," I say.

"Yes, it is." He slides his mouth down my neck like silk. My body responds sharp and instant.

I have to remind myself to breathe. Hot air fondles my lips, inviting me to lean in for a quick taste. And yes, I _want_ to lean in and it frightens me. Both his hands now creep along my back and nudge me closer. In the last second though, I turn away. It would be foolish to allow this to happen. I don't care if we still have such a strong connection after all these years. "This is just… I don't know what this is, but it's messing with my mind."

Finding some fortitude, I get up, step over the bottles and the paperwork, and escape down the hall. Rick, however, is on my heels.

His hands grip my shoulders and I find myself cornered in front of the guest bedroom. "Wait. Please Michonne. I'm so sorry."

Conflicted, I frown up at him. "I know. We can't…we shouldn't…"

"Yeah, you're right, we shouldn't. It's just that…" His shoulders slump forward, "there's something powerful lingering between us, just beneath the surface. Isn't there?"

I nod. Baffling, but true.

"We have to deal with it. I mean, what's the alternative?" he tries to reason, "After everything's done, tell me, do you plan on ignoring me again? For the rest of our lives while we live eight blocks apart?"

My shoulders shrug. "I don't like dwelling on the past. No good can come from it."

Dejected, Rick steps back, stuffs his hands in his pockets and asks, "What is it about me you're so afraid of?"

"Everything."

There's no denying the hurt on his face. My gut twists like a bitch with that look of vulnerability.

As I recall the embarrassment I endured as a result of granting him too much power and influence over my young heart, mind, and soul, then not being just as cherished in return, an apple sized lump forms in my throat.

"We're not kids anymore," he says, lowering his head until his gaze is level with mine. "We're adults. Let's just have it out. No more holding back."

My stomach tightened. "What?"

"You heard me. Come on. Let's put everything on the table. You think you know how I feel but you have no idea. So let's fix that. Tonight."

"You're joking."

"I swear to God I am not."

"Rick, stop this okay. You're not thinking straight. You're being ridiculous. When are you gonna realize that you can't have _everything_ your way?" Reopening old wounds? Stirring up anger and contention? I adamantly reject this proposal. Some things are better left unsaid.

I open the door and make my way inside. Again, I am followed.

"You don't wanna go first?" he says crossing the threshold, "Fine, I will."

"Don't."

"I'm disappointed," his voice rises above mine, "that you never showed up for my wedding."

The atmosphere in the room becomes stifling and malicious. Heat flushes through my body and my eyes automatically dart towards my luggage.

 _'I need to leave this house.'_

"Let's start there. My wedding, Michonne. The biggest day of my life. Young and scared trying to be a big man, and my best friend was not even present."

"The others were," I reply through gritted teeth.

"That's right, they were. Sean, Karen, T-dog, Tyreese, but not you, no. You didn't even have the decency to call me, text me, or email me. Nothing. Hell even my douchebag brother Spencer showed up for the free liquor. He kept asking the whole time where the hell you were. I lied my ass off of course about you getting a job and what not, that's why you couldn't make it. But they saw it – him, my mom. They could see my disappointment."

"I'm sorry, Rick," I lie. Because really I'm not.

He shakes his head. "That's not good enough. Tell me why?"

"Why?" I balk. "I didn't want to be there, that's why."

"You hated me that much?"

My throat closes in and I choke. "I could never hate you."

"Come on Michonne, be honest," He moves closer into my space till he's less than a foot away. "Just say it. Right here, right now."

"I don't owe you that anymore. That girl is gone. This woman right here, in front of you, has had enough of your bullshit."

"And I've had enough of yours. So just say it!"

My fists clenched. "I didn't want to pretend to be happy for you. Alright?"

"What's there to pretend? Thought we had patched things up, thought we were good."

"You thought wrong."

His breathing is growing heavier by the second and I inch back. "Okay…Okay. Look, I know what I did was... I was going through a bad phase, terrible even. And I'm not saying that as an excuse, but I was feeling sorry for myself and you got mistreated as a result. I didn't mean for it to be like that."

"Mistreated? No Rick, you took advantage of me! That's what happened."

"Excuse me, what now? Took—Took advantage of you? What the hell? Don't put that on me. No one forced you to do anything."

"Now who's not being honest? You didn't call Sean, or Karen, or even Lori your goddamned girlfriend. You called me. You lied and said you missed me and how awesome it would be for us to spend the weekend together. But when I got there…" I pause to blink back the tears. "Why? Why Rick? Let's be honest. It's because you knew I was 10 feet deep in fucking love with you that's why. You wanna talk about being honest? Then let's talk about _that_. About how I would've done anything you wanted. Including cheating a drug test."

It surprises me when I witness the color drain away from his face. "In—In love with me? What the _hell_ are you talking about? I—I didn't… you never…"

 _'Shit, shit, shit.'_

I try to scurry around him towards the exit but he grabs my arm.

"Wait! Are you serious?" His piercing eyes search my face for non verbal answers.

"Are you? Oh come on Rick. I'm not that stupid. _You're_ not."

"Back at the cabin? That summer? After my freshman year? You never said anything. Did I take advantage of you then too?"

I shove him off. "What we did, what I did, was a mistake."

"You don't mean that!"

"I do." He's holding out his damaged heart wanting us to compare scars. Specifically the ones caused by each other. He's gouging at the biggest scar tissue, ripping an old wound apart and it hurts. Tears start to flood my vision. "We should've kept things platonic. Avoid all this ugliness of guilt, betrayal, and regret."

"Michonne I don't know if you're remembering accurately, but goddammit, before then our relationship was anything but platonic. And unlike you, I don't regret a damn thing."


	7. Chapter 6

**_A/N:_** Okay readers, this one is a bit much. So don't go too hard on me. I'm not sure about how your responses to this chapter. But keep in mind more and more is yet to be revealed. It's a process. Lol. Enjoy.

 ** _Chapter_**

 ** _Six_**

 _MICHONNE_

 **Summer 1998.**

From under the white, domed tent, D.J. Zack is playing the music at a-tad-above ear-splitting level. Consequently, Mike, my ex, breathes down my neck for me to hear whatever he needs to say.

"Girl, be real–those playas in New York are gonna go wild over you," Mike pauses to lick his lips and allow his wide, wandering eyes, for the hundredth time, to slither down my figure. "I'm so jealous, it ain't funny."

Thankfully, I know he's not.

I give him an indulgent smile, and a polite nod of my head, before casting my attentions out to Walsh's jam-packed pool party. The usual faces from Cressida private and the neighboring public school, Coleman High, are here, mingled in with quite a few unknowns to my surprise. This annual summer event is typically 'invite only.'

On the other hand, the three p.m. sunny weather is perfect, the catered food is exquisite, and the alcohol and hard-bodies are bountiful.

Amen.

One particular high-school graduate I'm straining to keep an eye on, the one who drove me out here, is currently entangled with her boyfriend, swapping spit, twenty feet away from me on a lounge chair. Abandoned at exactly 5 minutes after our arrival, Karen said she needed one second to go say 'Hi' to her boo, Tyreese. But that was over an hour ago.

Which means now I'm stuck with this fool who, mind you, _is_ beautiful, (Yes Lord, you did good on this one), yet shamefully dim and desperate, (No Lord, you missed a spot). Mike has asked me to go "check out" Walsh's mansion three times already in the past fifteen minutes. Do I look like some naïve freshman? Because I am not having it. I wish he would leave. Find some other girl to go mack on, because he is wearing me thin.

"Hey Mike," I drain my cup and tap it on his hand, "you mind? Still thirsty." As soon as he turns his back I'm outta here, lose myself in this crowd.

"Wanna beer? Something stronger?"

"Surprise me Big Mike."

"And what's my reward Miss thang?" He jiggles my aviator sunglasses propped in my hair. "You know you gotta give a brother a little something to look forward to when he gets back."

My head snaps away when he brushes his lips purposefully over the tip of my ear.

"Don't." I shove him off and hold up a warning finger, but he only smirks.

 _'Jackass.'_

Just as I prime my hand to smack him stupid and cause a scene, an arm slides across my back and snags around my waist.

I don't have to glance up to know who it is that's suddenly pressed by my side. The familiar scent of spearmint gum and Calvin Klein, also coils around me as Rick places a brazen kiss on my cheek.

"Hey, there you are," Rick says. "Been looking all over for you."

Pure irritation tightens the skin around Mike's mouth. He's no longer staring at me but glowering daggers at my best friend.

 _'Cool your jets bro.'_

I turn my body into Rick's and nearly bite my tongue when I'm struck with how scrumptious he looks today. Laid back yet stylish in a navy blue, v-neck t shirt, paired with cargo shorts, and his brown curls slicked back from his summer-tanned face.

"Thought you weren't going to make it?" I say, not making any effort to contain my wide, eager smile.

"Almost, but then I thought about my girl being here alone to fend off these leeches," he gestures towards Mike.

"Step off Grimes," Mike barks, apparently picking up Rick's insult.

"This guy bothering you?" Rick's gaze however, doesn't leave mine. So smug and disapproving at the same time. He flips Mike the finger and in the next second extricates me from the confrontation.

All summer long, when I wasn't clocking in at my part time gig at Best Buy in the mall, Rick and I hung out together religiously. Most days, as soon as my shift ended I'd find him outside the store, seated on the edge of the fountain, sucking a lollipop and waiting for me. We'd jump into his Ford truck and end up wherever the hot Georgia wind took us. Sometimes, we'd drift close to home by his mother's cabin at Lake Woodson. Other times, we'd be on the road for hours, crossing over state lines and back.

As usual, dinners and late nights were spent at either my house or his. Pigging out in front of the television, playing cards, or listening to music till the wee hours in the morning.

As a result of devoting all that time to each other, I needed a break. With the exception of phone tag, we haven't interacted with each other much over the past two weeks. Part of my "Operation Detach." To wean myself off Rick Grimes before I leave for college.

But, you know, absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.

"What are you wearing?" he asks, once we've cornered ourselves between a round, shaded table and a wall of vine-covered lattice. "This two-piece is not what we discussed. What happened to the blue one?"

"Um, the T Back?"

His brow arches at my attempt to play dumb. "Yeah, that. You said it was fly, I agreed, so what the hell is this?"

I look down at the designer, yellow bikini perfectly accentuating every curve of my eighteen year old body. "It's my treat to myself."

He grunts. "More like a treat to these dogs out here salivating over your… cookies." Rick's use of my six year old sister's word for breasts cracks me up every time. Now, how can I take him seriously?

"They are?" I turn and grin at two cute guys I've never met gawking my way. I wiggle my fingers and mouth 'Hi' whilst trying to step out from Rick's shadow. But he's not playing. He has the nerve to reposition himself cock blocking me. "If you could just stop being an ass—"

"How much did this cost?" His arms are folded now. So what? 'Ish' just got serious?

"Aww Rick." I giggle, because even when he's fussy he's cute.

"How much? Did you stick to the budget? Supposed to be conserving your funds. Don't underestimate how hard things get living on campus."

"It won't for me. I'm not living on campus."

"What? Since when?"

"Since Daddy said so. He called last week. Convinced me to stay with him."

"And his new wife, Gretta the witch? With her two gremlin kids?" Yes, Rick knows all of my business.

I nod solemnly.

"Shit."

"Shit is right. It's gonna suck. But really I have no choice."

He strokes his knuckles across my cheek with concern. "You okay?"

I shrug. "As okay as I can be."

Rick stares at me for a few seconds knowing I'm putting up a front. "What did he say?"

Not wanting to discuss it further I dismiss the subject with a curt shake of my head. Any talk concerning my father usually ends with me in tears. But basically, I'm the forever ungrateful brat of a daughter, who is never good enough even though I try like hell to be practically perfect. Oh god. Now I'm losing my buzz just thinking about it. I need to fix that.

"If you'd excuse me," I say, "my Smirnoff needs to be refreshed and I need to mingle."

His arm jerked out and he snatches my wrist as I brush past him. "Get a t-shirt first."

"Dang Rick! You sure know how to make a girl feel special. I told you I wanted to treat myself. Do you really hate this suit that much?"

"You look like a fucking dream and you know it."

My face heats up and I'm speechless. The switch in Rick's expression is so swift, by the time my brain re-connects to my mouth to verbalize a response, he just as quickly breaks eye contact and scans the crowd.

His hand then slips into mine. "You, me, together... at the lake. Come on. Let's go."

"You just got here."

"Yeah well I'm not feeling this crowd."

I pull back. "These are my friends. It's the end of summer, I won't see them again."

"Don't think much about these people, and neither do you. They're all bums."

I shake my head and huff. Rick can really talk a lot of trash.

"What?" He squints at me as though I shouldn't take offense.

Sometimes I really don't understand him. He knew I'd made plans to be at this party today. This is my last chance to chill before I embark on a brand new life course at the end of the week. "Karen and Tyreese will miss me."

He takes his phone out from his pocket. "Here, text 'em."

"But my bag, it's in her car."

"Can't you get that tomorrow?"

My hands drag over my face as frustration starts to build.

"Are you gonna leave with me or not?"

"Not Rick. This...Us...It doesn't work like that. I'm not…"

"Not what?" he asks when I leave my sentence unfinished.

 _'I'm not your girl.'_

I shake my head. "Forget it."

With a measure of reluctance, I allow him to lift my arms around his neck and tilt my chin up.

Looking down at my face, his eyes narrow as he pulls me snug against him. My head swims, and my breaths quicken as that familiar tingling sensation warms my insides.

"You wanna stay?" he asks, "Fine, then I'll stay too. I'm sorry. But you've kept me away for two weeks Michonne. Without telling me why. And I'd rather if I could enjoy today with just you."

 _'Be strong Michonne. Don't stare. Don't lose yourself.'_

Easier said than done. It's moments like these that I know Rick knows my secret. And I may never get over him.

I bite my lower lip. How can I reject his request, when all he wants is to hang out with _just_ me? And who am I kidding? When we're alone… it's everything. I love it. Besides, after this summer I don't know when next we'll see each other again. So...

I cave, as per usual. "Would I still have to wear a t-shirt?"

"If it's just the two of us, no way bubblebutt." His finger trails my nose, and my lips burn with longing.

I smile. Rick Grimes really has me under his spell.

€...€

Sitting on this sun-bleached wooden dock, my legs stretched out, ankles crossed, I soak up the awe-inspiring panoramic view of the sparkling lake right before sundown. There's no denying it, Rick had been right. This is infinitely better.

As I bask in the summer breeze, letting the warm air dry the cool water off of my dripping skin, his approaching footsteps from behind alert me to his presence.

"Here," he says, handing over one of the towels he'd retrieved from the cabin.

I drape it around my neck as he slumps down onto the planks next to me. Almost immediately I notice reddening patches at his shoulders, and my thirsty fingers find an excuse to touch him. With a light stroke I trace a line around the blistering circles, but he's not bothered about getting sunburned.

"Look." I grab his wet t-shirt, which is balled up by my feet, and tell him to cover up.

As he slips his top back on, Rick suddenly admits to having spoken to Lori yesterday. She called, wanted to say hi. Wanted to know also when he'll be back at UVA in Charlottesville, because she's starting her freshman year sixty-five miles away at the University of Richmond.

I shrug and say, "Okay." But the heavy silence that follows indicates I should say something more. I don't. The dip in my stomach won't allow me to ruin the intimacy of possibly our final afternoon together.

Maybe tomorrow.

Rick and Lori had, once again, ended their relationship. Like Walsh's party, it's become an annual event at this point. This last separation occurred during spring break some months ago, and they are yet to attempt at reconciliation. Reason cited for the break up, according to Grimes: 'Incompatibility.' Whatever that means. I, on the other hand, can't help but speculate whether or not a major grievance transpired, because this pause in their courtship seems permanent _permanent_. Not wishful thinking, just being observant. I know he loves Lori, and regardless of my desires, Rick is an all-round great guy, whom I think deserves the world. And if Lori is the one who can give him that, then I'd be a hypocrite and a sorry excuse of a friend to discourage him from making things right with her.

But again…Tomorrow.

Placing a second dry towel over my thighs, Rick then lays down resting his head in my lap. I stroke his wet hair, more for my contentment than his, whilst we watch the golden sunset together.

Love, peace, and gratitude permeate my entire being for this simple experience.

My heart is full.

The tranquility of the moment inspires me to confide in Rick my fears about being away from home, from my mother and my family for an entire year. Not that I'm not brimming with excitement over residing in a new city, but I wish he wasn't leaving on Friday, because I'm leaving on Saturday and would've liked for him to be there when I say my goodbyes. I've never lived anywhere else, ever, and I'm terrified.

"You don't have to be," he says, reaching up to sweep his thumb back and forth along the curve of my chin. "You're gonna do great. You're gonna go over there and conquer that city, meet new people, and do amazing things. I know. Because that's who you are." He places my hand on his chest. "Plus I'll be needing you to call me everyday with the 411."

I tilt my head and smile down at him. "You want the 411? The scoop? The deets?"

He laughs. His gem-like gaze twinkle up at me. "Yeah, I wanna know everything, Michonne. Don't think about leaving anything out. I'll know when you're lying."

I bet he will. I bet he knows I've been lying to him for the past four years.

He turns quiet. But the calculations of his mind are visible in his eyes.

"What? You have more instructions for me?" I tease.

"Just one more, actually." His fingers start stroking my palm lightly. Innocent, but my heart gallops anyway.

"Okay."

"If you meet someone special, you'd tell me, right?"

That's not an instruction, that's a question. A peculiar one in fact.

"Right," I say, as I blink away from him, uncertain as to what the correct response in this scenario should be. Actually, I'm uncertain as to why he'd make such a request in the first place. Discussions about anyone 'special' in my life were usually kept to a minimum—by me—and typically had in a nonchalant, light-hearted and dismissive way.

And what about him? Should I ask that he do the same? If he's truly moved on from Lori? Yeah, right, I don't think so. That's the last thing I'd want to know.

"Won't really have time for that though," I add. "Dating? Not when my father's gonna be hounding me every minute. He's paying my tuition, he owns my ass, so he won't want me to forget it. You know what that's like."

"Yeah. I do," he says, emitting a long deep breath. "Why did we both get stuck with dip shits for fathers?"

"I don't know."

Waning light creates a red orange sky and darkens the waters of the lake. Before it gets even darker I turn and pick up the small book I noticed he brought with the towels. "What you got today?" I ask.

"Your favorite," he says, "The Brontë sisters." It's from his grandmother's collection kept here at the old cabin.

I open the slim volume of poems and read a portion. "'I'll not weep, because the summer's glory, must always end in gloom; And, follow out the happiest story— It closes with a tomb!'"

"Dark," he comments, "What's that mean to you Miss Moretti?"

"I interpret it as a bittersweet goodbye."

We stare at each other.

"No, not goodbye," Rick whispers, "Just... see you in awhile."

I shake my head and twist my mouth as tears spring to my eyes. "I think this might be it." His hand swipes away a fallen tear. And I laugh embarrassed. "And 'Tomb' pretty much means the end, Rick."

He turns and nuzzles my stomach giving me a quick peck above my navel. "I love you bubble butt."

I sigh. "Yeah. Love you too knucklehead."

€…€

Once complete darkness has taken over, we head inside the cabin. I follow him through the small, fifty-year old log house towards the downstairs bedroom where he hands me a fresh button-down to thrown on. Rick then peels his t-shirt off to go take a shower.

"You look like Mr. Krabs." I tease about his crimson neck and shoulders . "Probably have crabs too. From your night out with Miss blondie a few weeks ago."

He stings my stomach with the wet fabric. "Jealous?"

"Hey! Are you serious? That's gonna give me a serious welt you jackass."

"Stop exaggerating."

"I'm not. Look it's already starting to raise. Ugh! Rick, I could kill you!"

"Where? Let me see."

"What do you mean where? Right where you stung me, stupid." I point to the area right under my bikini top.

"Where? I don't see anything." He leans forward and squints.

"Right there…asshole." I smack the top of his head. Hard.

"Ouch! Goddammit Michonne—" He lunges forward and tackles me, causing us both to fall back on top of the bed. At that point, he does the unforgivable... He tickles me relentlessly. "Say you're sorry. Come on, come on. Say it!"

I screech and wriggle my body. "Alright. Alright," I say, trying to catch my breath seized by a fit of high pitched giggles. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Pleased, he stops. "Good, better."

"You started it." I look up at him as he hovers over me pinning my wrists on either side of my head.

He doesn't respond. His laughing eyes hold mine in a steady gaze, and as usual, like the sun, I can't stare for too long. So I allow my gaze to stray, stealing a glance of his heaving torso, and lower...

"Rick get off of me." The fingers of desire grip my throat and my voice is weak.

He doesn't. He drops to his elbows and I'm caged underneath him. "I don't think you mean it. Are you sorry, Michonne?"

"I am so sorry." I wrench a wrist from his grasp and rub his head. He gives me a mocking pout and I laugh some more.

"Yeah? Show me."

His breathy words wipe the grin off of my face.

 _'Show me?'_

More of a command than a suggestion.

Next thing I know, he's mapping out the shape of my lips with his finger. A genuine yearning in his eyes.

Goosebumps prickle my skin and my pulse throbs. I don't know, and I _do_ know, what he wants.

Or do I?

Wait, slow down. Let's not jump ahead of ourselves. Don't misread his signals. I am picking up signals, aren't I? I have to admit my friendship with Rick is so close, the line between platonic playfulness and flirtatiousness have become somewhat blurred.

With caution, my hand drifts down to the side of his face but Rick doesn't budge. He's letting me caress his cheek and I'm not certain what to do next. Do I really want this? Of course. Anticipation already has my body humming. I want this. Besides, how many times have I fantasized about what it would be like to kiss him. Just once?

In the blink of an eye, I feel his arms waver, the dip of his body as his legs intertwine comfortably with mine. Rick cares about me, and I adore him so I tilt my chin up feeling safe and wanted in this moment.

Soft… yet brief. That was it.

I knew the kiss was coming, but couldn't believe it until after his lips lifted off of my mouth. What, the hell, just happened? Did my mind seriously blank out? Because I think I missed it.

Rick takes note of the confusion in my eyes and whispers if this is okay? My brows hike up like _Really? That's all you got?_ He smiles, but his breathing, like mine, is labored. We're both riddled with pure nervousness. My fingertips slide down his toned arms and back up. Although his skin is cool and damp, his body, right against mine, blazes like fire.

As much as I am able to, I show him that I am at ease. My muscles relax and I nod ever so slightly. It's not much, but for Rick it's enough. His mouth drops onto mine and, just like that, he's kissing me again.

And this one registers. The glide of his pink lips is soft, slow, and teasing. Over and over. From corner to corner. Top to bottom. Deeper and sweeter. A kiss years in the making. Propelled by deep, hot secret longing, thick and demanding for a release. My lips part, our tongues touch, push and taste. Our hands sail the entire lengths of each other's burning, wet bodies. The incertitude about whether or not we could handle the repercussions of crossing this line is present in the back of my mind, but it does nothing to persuade me to pump the damn brakes. Or even to hesitate. Not for a single second. Rick and I, we don't stop. Neither of us does because neither us wants to. We want more, we want it all. So we give and we take and we submit to each other solely and completely until our bodies mold into one.

€...€

Standing under the running shower, Rick keeps asking if I'm sure I'm okay. I tell him that yes, I'm sure, the bleeding isn't much at all.

His chest presses against my back as he holds me close to him.

Tilting my head to the side, Rick nuzzles his face into my neck and I pull his arms tighter like a belt across my abdomen. His fingers flex around my rib cage and his mouth, warm and tender, tastes the water off of my skin.

Still high on my emotions, my eyes close and I try to control my breathing.

We've crossed over into a new domain which is sweet and intoxicating. A deadly combination. One I could easily get addicted to. I feel secure in these arms—these arms of my friend. I feel special, like this is where I belong.

"How was it?" he murmurs into my ear.

"What?" A nervous giggle fumbles out my mouth,"Oh, it was…"

 _'This is so awkward.'_

"…First exciting, but then strange? I guess. Unusual being so…exposed yet, you made me feel comfortable at the same time."

"But did you enjoy it?"

Again I laugh. Men and their egos. "Yes, Rick. You were very um...considerate." He groans burying his face deeper into my neck. I tap his wet cheek. "Worth every penny. I'll leave a big tip."

Rick sinks his teeth playfully into my skin and I let out a little squeal.

Now it's my turn. "And you? Was I—I mean—Was it…Okay, wow, this conversation is seriously too weird." I bite the corner of my lower lip glad he's not able to see my tortured expression.

Rick chuckles and nibbles my ear. "Sort of. But I don't know how to answer that question."

Embarrassed I go quiet. It was either good or it was bad. Simple, straightforward. He doesn't have to be more weird about it. I mean personally I thought it was amazing. The perfect way to say goodbye. But I guess he doesn't. Oh crap.

His forehead falls onto my shoulder and I lift my hand, running my fingers from front to back through his soaked hair.

"Rick?"

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to feel bad if you didn't enjoy me." After all it was my first time. How much could I give when I was so caught up in recording every second of the experience.

He holds me tighter.

"You wanna get out?"

"No. Not yet. And of course… of course I enjoyed it—you. It's just…" He pauses.

 _'Okay Rick, you're killing me here. It's just what?'_

"…This is _so_ different," he admits. "My mind won't stop racing and my heart's still thundering, pounding like a beast. Give me a few more minutes?"

"Sure." I don't like how he sounds. So different? What does that mean? Is he scared? Was this a mistake?

"Michonne?"

"Yeah?"

"You need to know something. Alright? I kinda think you've marked me for life. In a good way. In the best way."

My tender heart squeezes. "How—how do you mean?"

My body rises and falls slowly with the deep breath he now takes."I don't know. Just that maybe, if you think about it… like really think about it, you and I we're meant to be a part of each other's lives, you know. We should be. My mother once said something like that—some people are with you for a moment, and some for a lifetime. I think I wanna keep you for a lifetime, Michonne." His fingers grip my hips when he hears no response. "Tell me, what you're thinking?"

 _'I think I'm gonna cry.'_

Sensing my distress, Rick lifts his head and turns me around to face him. He uses his finger to run a line down the center of my dripping wet stomach and I quiver.

"You don't have to say anything right now," he says, "because I already know. I know that you care about me." His palms then splay across to my hips, and he backs me up against the bathroom wall. Once more, his mouth and his hands consume, devour, and plunder every inch of my body, making me tremble wanting him all over again.

When he let's me up for air, I stare at him somewhat bewildered as water drops fall down his face. Does Rick have feelings for me? Is that what he's trying to say, that this means something more?

"You said this is different. Different how?" I ask.

He links my arms around his neck, as he likes to do, and leans closer to my ear. "Good different," he whispers. "Fantastic even. Look," he places my hand over his chest, "still feel like my heart's bouncing around, out of control in there," he chuckles. "That's for you."

I take his hand and do the same. "Mine too."

He pulls back and I don't even try to hide the wide grin plastered on my face.

"To be honest, what I'm trying to say is that I um…" He laughs and shakes his head, his ears flushed bright red, but Rick shouldn't feel hindered to express himself. Not with me, and especially not now.

I place loving kisses across his chest. "What? Tell me." I look up and my eyes are ensnared by his, conveying a level of such intensity I hold my breath. "What is it?"

"I think I'm in love with you okay?" His words tumble out one on top of the other.

I have to stop, replay it, and slow them down in my mind. "You think?"

Without warning the world comes to a screeching halt and I frickin lose my own speech.

 _'Wait. What?'_

Fear, elation, and guilt all bombard my mind and I freeze.

Again. I think I might cry. "Okay. I—I…"

Misreading my stunned reaction Rick's eyes widen twice their size. "Hold on, let me explain."

"No—I just…"

 _'Say it. Right now. 'I'm in love with you too.' Say it!'_

But I can't. Oh god, I don't know how.

I tell him that I love him all the time, just a couple extra words, what's the difference? The difference is I've spent so long burying my truth, training it to stay hidden, that it's now refusing to come. The words are lost, clogging up my chest, unable to navigate their way up and out of my throat, even in this absolutely perfect moment.

Oh crap. I _am_ gonna cry.

"Hey, hey, hey. Michonne, what's wrong?" He slaps off the faucet as I start sniffling. He wraps me in a towel first before grabbing one for himself and guides me out to the bedroom. "Hey, did I do something wrong?"

I nod. "Nothing's wrong."

He chuckles at my conflicting responses. "We need to talk about what this is."

"We will," I say drying my tears. "But when we're clothed and dry and not so..."

"Heated?"

"Emotional. Please? Give me till tomorrow." I need to get my mind straight. I don't like being so dramatic but I am seriously overwhelmed. Operation Detach is a total failure. "I'll come over after shopping with Mom."

"You sure?"

"Sure."

He kisses my cheek. "Michonne?"

"Yes?"

"No regrets?"

I can't say how I'm feeling, but I could show him. I brush my lips against his one more time. My secret soundless on my breath.

 _'I'm in love with you too.'_

"No Rick. No regrets."

* * *

"Thanks for driving me around today baby."

"No problem Mom," I say, resting the grocery bags on top of the kitchen counter."It was fun. You need anything else? Want me to go get the girls from next door?"

My mother starts unpacking her goods and refilling her cupboards. "No, I'll be fine. Go on 'bout your business and tell Rick I said 'Hi' for me. I'd like to see him before he leaves town, though. When is it, tomorrow?"

"No, Friday."

"Oh good. Then definitely we should have him and Dee over for dinner this week."

"Yes Ma'am."

I skitter back out the house and jump into my mother's car. Checking the rear view mirror, I reapply my lip gloss, pop a tic-tac, and fix my hair.

A minute later, I'm still sitting in my driveway. My hands wringing the steering wheel raw. Maybe I should go back inside and change. No. No, I should just get through this. Shouldn't psych myself up for nothing. Breathe. Turn on the ignition. And drive.

I switch the car on and...

What if Rick was confused, and simply caught up in the moment? Or not. What if he's sincere and we could actually be more? Because I want more, I've been wanting us to be more and everything to each other for like forever and a damn day. But then I'll have to confess that I've been lying through my teeth, secretly crushing on him for years. How mortifying. However, on some subconscious level, Rick knows the depth of my feelings for him. Right? It's the only reason why I let him be my first.

No, none of that matters now. I'm ready to be straight with him. Come what may. There's no way we could go back after what he said. And what did he say? He _thinks_ he's in-love with me? Yeah well, he doesn't _know_. He might think differently today and I won't find out sitting here mentally torturing myself. I've done enough of this last night.

Another five minutes, and some seriously deep and slow breaths, later, I finally turn off of Wilson street driving the short distance over to Rick's home.

Approaching the grey and white brick bungalow however, a familiar red pick-up is parked at the entrance of his garage. So instead, I pull up on the other side of the road, obliquely opposite Rick's house. I take my phone out to text him that I was here. Before I could type in Rick's name, I spot him stepping out onto his porch with the owner of the pick-up.

Lori.

Suddenly, there isn't enough oxygen in the compact vehicle, but I wouldn't dare wind down a window.

He holds onto her by her hips and she's hugging him, their foreheads pressed together. And... Of course, she kisses him. I should look away but I don't. I imprint the image in my mind. The way Rick is staring at her, it's heartbreaking, almost as if she owns his soul. Sometimes I think I look at him the same way.

I slowly shake my head. You have got to be kidding me. I am such an idiot. I, am such, an idiot!

So everything he said to me, was what? I don't know, but clearly those two love each other. It has always been Rick and Lori. And it will always _be_ Rick and Lori.

He probably misses her. That's all yesterday was. I was just a… fill in or something.

My hand presses against my clenched stomach and I slump into my seat. Oh God, I made a mistake. I can't get caught up in the middle of their shit.

It takes me a few seconds to know what I have to do. I click through my contacts, find Rick, and I still send him a text message:

"Something came up. Can't make it. But don't worry about anything. Yesterday was amazing, I'll cherish it forever, but 'this closes with a tomb.' It was an emotional day for us both. Don't call me. I'll call you, we'll talk more soon."

€…€

Later that night, after calling my phone several times, Rick decides to show up uninvited at my door.

From my bedroom upstairs I can hear my mother speaking to him.

"My baby's not doing so good," she says, "All afternoon Michonne's been complaining about not feeling well. You wouldn't know anything about that now, would you young man?"

"Uh, no Ma'am," Rick answers. "Can't say that I do. Please, may I just go up to talk to her? Just for a minute? Won't stay long I'll be quick, besides, I have other things to tend to."

"Well, I don't believe you, but just one minute Rick," she agrees. But her soft tone of voice indicates Rick could actually stay for a week. She'd pull out the damn sofa bed, fix him dinner and everything. The woman has no backbone I swear.

Rick climbs up the staircase and sees me standing at the top landing. He follows behind me to my room leaving the door ajar according to my mother's well known rules.

When I ask why he's he's here, although I already know, he says he wanted to show me his surprise.

"Okay," I say.

And out from the pocket of his denim jacket he retrieves a white envelope. Apparently he went ahead and rescheduled his flight from Friday to Saturday.

A lump forms in my throat. "I didn't ask for you to do that."

"I know. You didn't have to." He walks over to my bed and sits in front of me. "So, you mind telling me what that message you sent is all about?"

Staring at my bare feet I couldn't stop seeing _them_ standing close together in my mind.

"Michonne, answer me. Please?"

My fingers reach to the nape of my neck and I start fiddling with my hair. "Think what I said was pretty much self explanatory. We're best friends. Hormones, plus the Summer's ending, plus, you know... everything. Don't worry about it."

"Worry about what?"

"Any of it... about me. We're still friends," I repeat like a mantra to myself. "We'll always be just friends. So you're off the hook. Just please swear you won't mention what happened again. Please." I walk over to the door and step out, letting him know I had nothing else to say. Also, I still want to touch him. I can't stand being so close, breathing in the same air, remembering the feel of everything.

He stands but remains in my room."I'm not looking to be off the hook. I just—I don't understand. No regrets, remember? And what it is I said?"

I don't respond. I don't risk gazing at him. If I do, he'll know I'm on the brink of crying. I only focus on this wall of defense I've constructed and pray he doesn't test the strength of it.

"Well," he says, after we've been silent for awhile,"I um, guess that's my minute then."

To maintain distance, I step back as he exits my room.

"Should I still come on Saturday?"

"Not if you don't want to. I was just being you know…"

"Yeah, yeah I heard you. Emotional. More bullshit," he mumbles.

"What?"

"Nothing. How about you just call me when you get to your Dad's?"

"Sure, fine, whatever."

I follow him down the stairs but he stops and faces me as he hits the landing.

"Why the fuck are you crying?"

"I'm not, Rick. You are." Okay, that was childish. He touches the corners of my eyes and shows me his fingertips. He's right, they're wet. "Oh…" Tears. Sneaky bastards. "And don't curse inside my mother's house."

He sighs, "Sorry. But just tell me… Did I do something wrong?"

I'm not sure how to answer that. At this point I don't trust Rick's "feelings" are real. And I'm not willing to put my heart in his hands, when obviously his heart still belongs to Lori. "No. You didn't. But I think I did. Sometimes, things aren't meant to be…some people aren't, you know?"

He nods and clutches my waist, pulling me towards him. "Can't we just go back upstairs and really talk about this?"

Oh, god he is too close. I just want to shove my tongue down his throat.

Just then, waltzing out from the living room sipping on a glass of wine, my mother spots us. And Rick releases me.

"Oh... so, what's going on? You good now baby?" she asks, her eyes widening at me.

"Yes Ma'am. Rick's ready to leave. We're done talking."

"Okay." Mama hugs him goodnight, and without a second glance my way, Rick sees himself out the front door.

Operation Detach resumed.


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N:** This delayed update was never my intention. _atm0000:_ Your honor, girl apparently I murdered my own self because I was completely depleted after the last chapter. One thing led to the next and so I struggled through this installment. _member00:_ I look forward to reading your first fanfic. I know it's coming because you are hilarious and you really get invested. Which is awesome. Readers please try to enjoy. I hope to do better with the remainder of the story. Thank you.

 ** _Chapter 7_**

 _Rick_

 **Present**

I can barely keep still as a war of emotions tears through my heart. The muscle in my neck twitches, my temples throb, and I struggle not to play _What if?_ to understand the repercussions of our situation.

Slowly, under my insistent glare, Michonne backs away from me until she bumps into the door frame.

"Why are we doing this Rick?" she asks, looking depleted. With shoulders slumped, her gaze lowers to the floor as she's analyzing the spillage of our secrets. I could see her visibly summoning a necessary calmness; taking in slow, deep breaths determined to protect herself, this prudence of hers is both a strength and a weakness. "Why are we even fighting? This… is ancient history."

"Because it still _hurts,"_ I reply, with a little less tact and discretion. "A part of us both has never moved on."

Her eyes jerk behind me, and I turn to notice her attention being drawn towards her luggage next to the desk with her closed laptop on it. That's the second time she's done that since we've started this confrontation tonight, and my jaw clenches. "Hey," I watch her jump at the sharpness in my voice, "you're not leaving my house just like that. Not until I get the whole truth. Not until I hear everything." And I _need_ to hear everything.

Her spine straightens, and she leans off the wall. "You plan on keeping me a prisoner here?"

"If that's what it takes..." Narrowing my eyes I encroach upon her personal space and she steels herself like a wary cat. Oh, it's on now. But hell, I don't care. This isn't some game. I have every intention to finish what it is I've started, and none whatsoever to allow the love of my life to shut me down again so easily. You could forget that. It was too painful, not to mention absolutely stupid, permitting that to happen the first time. "If you were... in-love, as you say, tell me why did you have a change of heart? Was it something I said, s-something I did?"

As though the revelation of her true feelings towards me wasn't a shock enough, Michonne now rolls her eyes at me sending my blood to a boil, and instantly, I run both hands through my hair.

This woman is so goddamned-stubborn!

She insists on making this discussion as tortuous as it can be. This is insane. Does she want me to beg for her to speak? Fine. I reach out and grab her to me and her eyes grow wide as she gasps.

"Rick!"

"What do I have to do?" I growl. "Please?"

She wins. I beg.

And slowly, I let her go. As my fingers graze down her arms, I can't help the impulse to savor the creamy smoothness of her skin. Desperation to hold her again grips me for a few seconds, and I swallow the startling reaction and take a step back.

 _'Focus Rick. Focus.'_

After a beat or two, Michonne, with much reluctance, now further confesses that on the day after we were together at my cabin, she did in fact come over to my house. Unfortunately, she had bared witness to the encounter between me and my ex, on the front porch. Our interactions, what little she caught sight of, had for her put things into perspective.

"So that's it?" I reply, incredulous, "Why didn't you say something? You didn't know for sure what you saw with Lori."

"I saw enough," she bites back. "Ever since I have known you, you've been with her. You two have history. I couldn't compete with that. You were always going to end up with Lori and it was better for me not to get caught in the crossfire. I was in way too deep as it was and I just wanted out. And I did. Took me a really long time, but I did. I got out. No more hoping for something that was never going to happen. And yes," she sighs, "that day at the cabin was...indescribable. But it was just for one day. I loved you for years; you loved me for a moment. I decided it wasn't worth the risk."

Her eyes, glistening with the depth of her conviction, tug at my heart. For years? She claims she was in-love with me, for years? And yet, she didn't fight for us when we had our chance?

But then again, neither did I.

Is this what this is? Am I fighting now?

It's a risk, but I place my hands on her silky shoulders, hoping my touch would somehow abate this storm brewing between us. She doesn't flinch, which is good, but her breathing quickens so I go ahead and give her a gentle squeeze.

"The thing is," I sigh, "that night, when I was at your house, you seemed to be so conflicted. I felt bad because I thought I made you feel bad…That I came on too strong. You know there were countless times before, when you treated me like I was stupid—like I'd be imagining things whenever something was bothering you. When I'd asked, you'd get cold and distant. Been that way since you were fourteen. Had to nag you to talk to me, and most times you'd let me in. But sometimes not. That night… I should've pushed harder, I shouldn't have let our love go to waste. Something was bothering you, and I—I don't know why, but I let it pass."

"You were unsure."

"About you? No. But you seemed to have made up your mind about me. And I was heartbroken. That's the God's honest truth."

Michonne bypasses where I stand and sinks down on the edge of the bed.

I join her, scooting away the cardigan she'd tossed across the comforter. "And Lori…" I continue, "you're wrong about that, in so many ways. Her coming over was unexpected and we got into it."

"What does that mean?"

"It means she was having second thoughts about us not being together. Harmless at first, but then the conversation took a turn and we started to argue and she got upset. I needed for her to calm down before she got back on the road and something bad happened. And yes, she kissed me and I let her because it was a difficult discussion for the both of us. Lori doesn't make the best decisions when faced with hard situations. She isn't a bad person. It pained me to see her so hurt."

During the time we'd spent apart, Lori started seeing someone else. In a matter of a couple of weeks she realized it wasn't a good fit, it made her give serious thought about her future and our long-standing relationship. The funny thing was, at the time I had been seriously thinking about my future too.

That entire day, waiting for Michonne to come home to me, I had spent hours in front of a computer screen researching what track scholarships were available for colleges in New York. Which then lead to me scouring the classifieds, looking for jobs, pricing apartments so that Michonne would have an option and wouldn't have to endure the misery of living with her father. I was practically planning our lives together.

Being with her in the cabin was simply magnificent. Never thought it was possible to experience such a deeply satisfying connection. I replayed every detail, every sensation, every moment spent making love to my adorable and sexy best friend again and again. The encounter etched in my mind and carved into my soul. It was that beautiful. How in one second Michonne's face would light up with girlish giggles, and in the next her gaze would darken with womanly desire was mesmerizing and incredible. _She_ was incredible. Her loving tenderness, her enthusiasm to melt into me was like a drug and I wanted more. Our chemistry was explosive.

My heart shriveled like a dry leaf when she sent me that stupid text.

Michonne shifts, pinning me with her large dark eyes. "And what about me?"

My brows furrow. "Did I tell her about you, about us? No, I didn't, because you and I hadn't talked things over yet." Even though I'd recognized a long time before that Michonne and I were the ones who were more alike. "It wasn't necessary because what I had with her was over."

"Except it wasn't, Rick." She grabs the sweater balling it up rather than fold it. "By next summer you two were back together, and that just confirmed that my decision was the right one." Although she's nodding with certainty, the intonation of her voice went up into a question.

"No," is all I could say as I rest my hand on top of hers. "Lori and I happened because I needed to move on. Because what you said before, about my feelings for you only existing for a moment, that's the furthest thing from the truth. Was in-love with you prior to us becoming intimate. Had been for a long time."

Michonne's fingers went still. Her whole body did. "How—How much time?"

I sigh and let my head rock back.

"How much time?!" she demands, springing to her feet. "That summer? A few months? Six?"

"Over a year. Maybe two? I don't know."

She smacks my shoulder and I spit it out. "Your junior prom, okay. You remember that?"

"Yes," she whispers.

"When you called me last minute to take you to the dance, I was excited, yet, extremely nervous and I, I didn't understand why. But then I got there to your house... and Michonne, you looked so beautiful. Like a queen. With that pink and blue dress on, your tiara, and everything. I swear I wanted to kiss you right then and there and steal you away somewhere secret to keep you all to myself. That's the moment I realized how crazy I was for you. It was petrifying. But if I could go back…"

"Don't." Her eyes squeeze shut. "Please don't."

I chew on my bottom lip as a reel of images from that night flickers on in my head. Me, sweating like some green kid, unable to stop staring at her the whole night. Her, scowling because I was making her feel uncomfortable, and threatening that if I didn't quit leering she was gonna let me have it.

And boy did I want it. I wanted her, something fierce within my bones.

"You spilled your drink on my dress," Michonne says, wrinkling her nose as the occasion also flashed through her mind. "I was pissed off at you."

"Yeah, you were. And I did, didn't I?" I stroke my beard and smirk. "But I made up for it by paying for the dry-cleaning bill, didn't I? And outside of that we had a fun time, I made sure of it. I felt so grateful for the jackass who dumped you that night."

She holds up a stern finger to my face. "He... did not... dump me. His brother had the flu and—"

"And he ditched you, Michonne. Quit kidding yourself," I give her a reassuring smile. "But don't worry, I took care of that dick the very next day."

Her head jerks back. "Wait…no," a mischievous grin fights its way across her lips, "The sprayed painted graffiti on his Honda? That was you?"

"Me _and_ Tyreese," I nod. "Nobody messes with my girl and gets away with it. Wasn't about to let that shit slide."

Tilting her head she gives me a _'real mature Grimes'_ disapproving look and I shrug. That jackass had it coming to him.

"What about you?" I ask, lightly brushing cheek, "When did your feelings change for me?"

Her smile falters as her almond-shaped eyes skip sideways and her body starts to fidget.

So, naturally, I move in closer.

I'm taking a chance here by intimidating her. But I can't risk her closing up, or shutting down again. I need for us to move forward. I need to move forward. For too long I've been trapped, my growth stunted because to a certain degree I've been unwilling to take an honest look into our past and search for the freedom from our secrets. I tilt her chin upwards and peer into her hauntingly beautiful eyes. I smile, letting her know that she's still safe.

But she casts her gaze downward in an expression of unwilling surrender. "My feelings, were always the same. Right from the start."

My hands fall to my side and my feet stumble back a step or two. My stomach bottoms out and for a few moments I'm unsure on how to respond or what exactly I should do.

 _'What? Always?'_

Michonne hardens her jaw. "You must've known." Her voice wobbles and tears spring to her eyes. "Wasn't it obvious?"

My mouth runs dry. "No."

"Rick, please." Her lips fold, and her expression creases into one of disappointment. "You intentionally flirted with me over and over again to get your way because you knew you could. I'm not stupid. Actually, I was—for you. But I wasn't _stupid_."

"That was me acting on my attraction towards you. I didn't know your feelings _always_ ran deeper for me."

"Yeah right, you're so full of shit."

"Excuse me? _I'm_ full of shit?"

She shakes her head while shuffling past me, "Forget it. I'm not doing this anymore."

I reach out to draw her into my arms but she flinches back. "Hey. Wait, just wait."

"What?"

 _'Two steps forward...one step back.'_

"There were times when you—your eyes—would look at me differently. Soft, and adoring. I saw that and I'd think…"

She slaps me in the chest. "That I was pathetic?"

I grab her elbow. "No! Would you stop putting words into my mouth? Jesus Michonne I thought that you were trying to show me something…a secret ," I shrug, " I don't know, I chose not to dwell on the meaning because what I did know was that I had Lori. So even though I liked that look, a lot, to a great extent I ignored it. I had to. Even after your prom and everything changed for me. I'm not that guy."

"Until you were, because you screwed around on your wife."

I wince at her scathing remark. "That was different!"

She drops her face into her palms and sighs in frustration. "I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. You're turning me inside out."

A wave of regret washes over me and I soften my tone. "No, I'm the one who's sorry. Truly and deeply. Never would I purposefully play with your emotions like that as though I didn't care. Because I did care. You were one of the most important persons in my life and I have missed you."

"I've really missed you too." She grips my elbows. "But, the reality is, or was, our relationship, our lives were too complicated for my 18 year old brain to figure out. I was scared of being abandoned. I did not want to be a placeholder and then sidelined with a mortgage and three kids."

"You thought I would be so callous to hurt you like that?" I respond, offended. "Michonne, you and I, we were nothing like your parents. I wished we could've tried. Things could've been so different."

"Different doesn't necessarily mean good, Rick. Besides, you've got Carl, and I had Andre. We would never, _ever_ trade for a life without them."

"Of course not. I won't even contest that statement." But again, the haunting question of _'What if?'_ hangs like a weight around my heart and it's hard not to wonder about an alternate reality where neither one of us messed up. The certainty in her eyes, however, make me push those fruitless thoughts aside… for now. Instead I tilt my head and smirk to lighten the mood. "And three kids? One is such a handful, maybe we could've had two."

Michonne throws her hands up exasperated. "You're missing the point."

"No, I hear you. Loud and clear." My arms fold across my chest. "But that was then. What about now?"

"Now? First of all, I don't think what I felt for you was real. Just a crush. It was all in my head, wasn't it? True love is when two people have a connection and aren't afraid of it. I was too young to understand that then, but I get it now. I shouldn't be afraid of you Rick. But somehow I still am. Standing here, my heart is racing."

I take her hand and place it on my chest. "Mine too. But I'm not afraid. I'm excited. And for me it was real—what I felt then and what I feel now."

Grasping her other hand I press our fingertips together. The chemistry and energy is still charged between us. She leans forward. She feels it too.

"This time," I say, "could be our chance to figure it out, show all our cards and get it right. Please, don't you want that? Something more than friendship?"

She stares at me wide-eyed, her mouth opening and closing without a word making it past her lips.

Those lips…

The next thing I know my tingling body inclines me to dip my head and brush my mouth against hers. A surge of electricity zips between us rendering me breathless. With a low growl, I gather her into my arms. The strength of her body yields to mine willingly and now pure elation rockets through my insides. My gut untightens, my muscles relax, as Michonne returns my kiss ardently. The reintroduction to the shape, the thickness, and the taste of her lips, flood my senses with vivid memories. My heart is set on fire.

The heat of her breath fuses with mine as our mouths part offering deeper access to each other's souls. Her fingers stroke my jaw, my pulse quickens. With a swift tug I align her hips with mine and she presses in. Another growl erupts from the depth of my kidneys and greedy desire vanquishes all rational thought. I walk her backwards to the edge of the bed, her long fingers fly to my biceps and she grabs on as my arm locks around her back lifting her onto the Ivory colored sheets.

A moan vibrates from her throat—smooth and melodic—and passes into mine. Damn she's perfect. Michonne's petite frame feels so warm and inviting pinned beneath me. How many times have I fantasized about her this way? Too many. Her dips her curves are exceptional and I want to touch, and be touched, by every inch of her magnificent body. I nibble, pull, suck and thoroughly explore her luscious mouth leaving her gasping for air.

"Oh my god," she pants, "Wait. We should pause." A shaky hand comes up to her forehead.

I slide my fingers between hers and kiss her sleek digits. "You okay?"

"It's just…What are we doing?"

I breathe out a laugh. "Getting caught up I guess."

"Yeah… I guess."

"This wasn't my intention. Not exactly. You wanna stop?"

She nods pressing a palm against her heaving chest. "What you said this morning about a fresh start, I liked that. If you really want to, then I'll try."

I nod. It's too much too soon so I climb off of her.

"I'm hungry... and exhausted."

"Bad combination."

"I know."

My eyes dart across to the alarm clock. _11:26._ "If you'd like, we got some crackers and juice, I could get that for you."

"No, I'll get it. Actually, I could really do with a glass of Moscato." She sits up fixing her top.

"Or how about burgers? We could catch the late shift at Wendy's before they close up for the night."

"It's not necessary."

"Hey, I could eat too. A large fries is sounding mighty tempting right about now. Going at it with you is taking a lot out of me." I step back and hold my hand out to her. "C'mon."

She studies me for awhile before she agrees. "Fine. But I'm getting a strawberry shake and I'm not sharing." With an upturn curl of her lips she surrenders her soft hand to my grip and I relish her light touch, holding on as we walk out of the bedroom.

"Ain't nobody got time for no shake Michonne. I want beef, in a bun, with pickles, lettuce, and everything. A large coke, some onion rings, extra fries... I want some damn food woman. You betta keep your hands to yourself."

She chuckles tilting her head. "I'm not trying to get a heart-attack."

Standing out in the hallway, I reach for her and pull her to me. There's a wild thudding behind her rib cage matching my own heartbeat. "Really?"

"Really?" She blushes. "But I will take at least one fry."

I chuckle because I know I'm gonna have to upsize.

* * *

 _MICHONNE_

My ex-husband liked to comment that I was often the perfect model of composure. He admired my ability to remain cool and calm under the most trying of circumstances, regardless of the nature of the upheaval. And he was right.

Growing up as the eldest, in a single-parent house, required me to adopt this trait of emotional temperance. It became key when, out of nowhere, my family fell apart and life as I knew it blew up into chaos. When, at thirteen my mother needed me to take up the reins of second in command in order to assist with the adjustment, whilst regaining some semblance of normalcy for the sake of my much younger siblings.

For most of my life, keeping a cool head has always guided me and kept me sane. Always.

But last night, Rick demanding that we 'just have it out,' unraveled me within seconds like frayed laces.

Like damn. How in the name of Black Jesus did I end up on my back with Rick kissing the heck out of me?

How in the world did I even stop?

 _'Not good Michonne. Not good. At. All.'_

Without warning my phone rings, dragging me out of my spiraling thoughts. From under the sheets my arm stretches across to the night stand and my hand slaps around until I find the annoying device. Peeping out from my cocoon, I notice that it's barely 6:30 yet an unknown number flashes on my screen. Strange, but okay.

"Hello?" I answer in a whisper.

"Good morning. Miss Moretti?"

I pause, not immediately recognizing the voice. "Who's this?"

"Sorry if I woke you, this is Miss Espinosa. From the bank?"

I sat up against the headboard. "Oh. Yeah."

"Was wondering if you gave any thought to that coffee?"

"Honestly, I did. I'm interested."

"Great. Perfect. I have some free time this morning. So if you'd like, we could meet up at Sherri's on Ashby and 3rd. Is that good for you?"

"Sure. Give me a couple of hours. Actually, how about nine?"

"Nine it is. See you soon."

.-.-.-.

After we drop Carl off to school, Rick drives me over to Dupont hotel's parking lot to collect my car where it's been sitting for the past three days. Both spots alongside my vehicle are unoccupied, so he pulls up on the left. Half of the spaces, marked by white lines, are empty, and other than the few people walking in and out the nearby stores, the surroundings are practically deserted.

Although Rick doesn't agree one-hundred percent with me having this impromptu meeting, he isn't entirely against it either. So, he quickly dispenses advice about what I should say and what I shouldn't say, what I should do and what I shouldn't do. How long our conversation should take, where I should sit, and so forth and so forth. Like the average woman whilst any man is talking, I am multitasking. At least in my mind I am. With the use of the sun visor mirror, I paste on my lipstick, smoothen the front of my blue button-down shirt, tuck in my bun, all while mulling over the bittersweet revelation that's been taunting me for the past ten hours—Rick Grimes loved me.

For two years.

And I had no clue.

Huh, go figure. An underwhelming response I know, but honestly that's the most I could come up with at this moment. What am I supposed to do with that disclosure? Maybe I'm in shock. But not Rick. No, now he wants more, thinks it's our second chance, but what I think is that I need time. Logically, I should take some time. So much has happened, and is still happening, not to mention my four year relationship with Shane only recently ended. To get involved with someone else so soon, is that wise? But this isn't just anyone else, is it? This is Rick. My Rick. And it's impossible to be around him for more than a second and not feel everything. To not remember _everything._ And now he's so smug because now he knows. Truthfully, a part of me envies his sense of surety.

Rick glances past my head at the sound of a beep unlocking a car door. "Maybe I should tag along. You know safety in numbers."

"Don't think she's gonna knife me in a coffee shop."

He laughs, holds my hand and rubs his thumb across my skin. "Hey." Even though he smiles the earnest expression of concern is hard to miss.

"I'll be okay," I throw in a single nod of confidence. "We're just gonna chit-chat. And besides, I have the phone's recorder on just in case."

My reassurance has the desired effect. Rick goes quiet for a few seconds and he moves on. "I was uh, thinking… maybe we should go out and have dinner some time."

"Like a date?"

"Not like a date. An actual one. In a few days, this could be over, I'll take you home and we could see about that fresh start we talked about." Rick leans closer and kisses me lightly. "Mmm. Cold, sweet, salty." He licks my breakfast off his lips.

I giggle, liking that his taste also lingers on the surface of my mouth. "Onions. Gross." I tease.

He smirks. "Sorry."

"No you're not. But it's fine."

This grown man's face reddens. He presses his lips to my shoulder and I kiss the crown of his head. He looks up, his eyes now hooded, tempted, and tempting.

"Don't. Don't do this to me," I groan, my hand clutching my stomach to calm the flapping wings inside.

Rick smiles with an arched brow, not taking my comment as a request but as a challenge. He could do better. Nudging my chin with his nose the sexy bastard trails kisses from the corner of my mouth to the edge of my jaw on one side, tilts his head and repeats his attentions to the other. He then cups my face and feather-kisses my eyelids? Not what I expected. But okay… I chew on my lower lip to hold back from laughing.

Shifting his position to get comfortable, Rick leans closer to my seat over the handbrakes and uses his index finger to slowly trace the outline of my face. From the top of my hairline, to my temple, down to the curve of my jaw, and sweeps forward to the arch of my chin. I remain quiet through his peculiar inspection. A bit confused, curious, and also aroused goddammit.

I start to pull away but the swirling heat between our bodies, combined with the musky smell of his cologne, the fresh scent of his shirt, detains me, invites me to stay and indulge in this intimate moment. For a second I cave in to my urges. My fingers stroke the warm skin on the side of his neck and the steady throb of his pulse above his collar picks up. My hand drifts downwards pressing into the hardness of his chest and snakes even lower to his stomach right at the buckle of his belt. His breath hitches. Not only am I conscious of this current sparking between us, but I'm letting him know I enjoy it. "Rick?" It's almost silly like a dream, isn't it?

The rough pads of his thumbs caress my cheek bones in answer, before running a path back to the contours of my lips. My eyes zero in on his beautiful mouth and I almost fall forward to capture him again. To taste him again. But he holds me back. My gaze flickers up and I notice the fascination of his expression, the tender appraisal in his eyes, the appreciative smile, and it…it stirs a strange but familiar feeling within me. I feel cherished. The fondness of Rick's touch makes me feel like I am of value to him.

A shiver ripples through my heart, and reflexively I pull back.

 _'You're going to lose yourself Michonne. Do not sink back into this man. Not so quickly.'_

Rick cocks his head to the side perplexed. "Hey, I just want you to be safe, okay? Call me when you're finished."

The fluttering in my stomach kicks into overdrive with a teaspoon of nausea. I clutch my bag and jump out of the car. "Okay."

-.-.-.-.-

I beat Miss Espinosa to the 'hole-in-the-wall' coffeehouse. According to my lawyer's instructions, the best seat to take would be at a corner table keeping the entrance in my direct line of view. While I wait, I scan the trickle of customers traipsing in and out the fairly new establishment. Each more cheery than the other, ordering their typical espressos and hot chocolates and fresh baked cookies and muffins.

Me, I opted for a bagel and black coffee. I know, I know gluten and all that. Plus the freshness of these beans is highly suspect. The java hut I frequented in Astoria, was consistent with their robust brews. Although, they had a more of a 'we paid a high end interior designer to give us a homey rustic style,' look to it. Here, in this tiny brick walled space with its coffered drop ceiling, framed family photos, and vacation mementos—not to mention the single worn out leather seat in the adjacent corner—it looks more like we're literally in Sherri's house. Her full life on display. For all to see how easy breezy her existence has been.

Soon, I'll be back to my own life. In my own house. With my own family portraits and worn out couch. Comfortable, familiar, and safe. Today, all I need is just enough information to submit to the THPD and set them on the right path to solving Annabella's case.

I fiddle with the buttons on the elbow length sleeves of my shirt, and glance once more at my mobile...9:15. Where the hell is this woman?

As if on cue, to my right the door bell chimes, when finally the elder Espinosa sibling comes strutting through the front entrance, dressed in all black. While she squeezes past the line of tables jammed next to each other, I pretend to be sending a text message as I put my recorder on and slip my phone into my bag.

She greets me with "Hey, sorry for being late. Traffic," and eases into the chair right across from mine.

I shrug and shake my head. "Not a problem."

Her red, full lips curl into a smile which never quite made it to her eyes. Those pretty eyes with their thick lashes were very much like her sister's, yet, something akin to malice blazed behind them.

"Glad you decided to come," she says, swooping her long, dark ponytail through her hands. "Wasn't sure what you thought about my offer."

"Is that why we're here? For us to talk about personal loans?"

She scoffs. "Right. Actually, I wanted to thank you again, for making it out to the funeral. That was nice. My sister wasn't really… how can I put this?" She glances up at the elderly couple seated hand in hand four tables away and then back at me with a smirk. "A good girl. Only those of us who were close to her knew the truth. Knew what it was like to be burned by her."

Well let's get right into it, shall we? I sit up straight and casually nudge my bag to the middle of table. "Meaning?"

"Meaning we weren't too surprised by how she went out."

This cold-hearted witch…

"And you wouldn't happen to also know exactly why she went out like that, now would you?"

She sidesteps my question. "Spoke to my mother a couple of days ago. She mentioned a lawyer stopping by asking questions on your behalf, said he's aiding the police to speed up their investigation."

"Isn't that what we all want?"

She smiles at my bewildered expression. "You hardly spent time my sister, Miss Moretti. Must have been devastating to witness such a brutal attack. Most people would choose to quickly put that behind them."

"I couldn't keep her alive," I respond, forcing down the lump of guilt lunging into my throat to choke me. "Should've reacted sooner, quicker."

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "Which is why we have an offer."

I withdraw from her icy grip. "Who's "We"?"

The instant Rosita opens her deceitful mouth to respond, "We" waltzes into the cozy shop. Like a cheesy scene from a low-budget, 1980's movie, the latest customer makes his arrival a grand production.

"Well goddamn! It sure smells mighty fine in here!"

I pull my bag into my lap trying not to show my disconcertment. Despite having seen his picture once, there was no doubt in my mind that this 6 ft. something, broad-shouldered man, in a blue pin striped suit was no other than Negan Vincenzo—Rosita's manager and possible co-conspirator.

The young brunette behind the cash register, with the hand written name tag strategically placed on her double-D chest, lights up. "Oh, hi! Mr. Vincenzo. What a nice surprise. We haven't seen you in quite some time."

"Well thought I'd drop by and see how things are coming along Sherri," he says.

"Always such a gentleman. Can I get you anything? Anything at all?"

"Those pecan cookies sure look scrumptious sweetheart."

"They sure taste scrumptious too. I'll bag a few for you, on the house."

"Oh that's not necessary," he protests.

"Now, now don't be silly," Sherri persists. "Anything for the man who made my dreams come true. You did right by me when I needed to get this place off the ground." She gestures to the space.

"Stop you're making me blush." Suddenly, he "notices" Rosita and me seated in the corner. "Well looky here. Miss Espinosa… fancy running into you this morning. Today's your day off, isn't it?"

I shake my head at Rosita. "You can't be serious. Are you two for real?" Is this bitch trying to sabotage me? After making me overpay on this crap cup of coffee? She should've taken me to Starbucks at least.

"Ooh." He places another chair next to mine, turns it backwards, and straddles it. "Who's your spicy friend?"

"Mr. Vincenzo, this is Michonne," Rosita answers, "The woman I told you about. Michonne, meet my boss Negan Vincenzo."

"Oh that's right." He offers me his hand. But of course I don't touch eel so instead I fold my arms across my chest, and glower at the slippery-looking man. "Miss, Michonne, Mor-retti." He wraps his arm around the back of his seat and hovers closer. "One of our fine, loyal clients. It's nice to finally meet you."

A tight smile is as much as I could manage. I'm not here to play along in any sham would these two shady characters.

"Hmm," Mr. Vincenzo leans his head back trying to read me. "The strong, silent type. I like that in a woman. Now, aren't you the same one who happened to be the very last person to see Rosita's not-so-fine sister alive? How unfortunate."

"Apparently for all of us it is." I glance back and forth between them. "Isn't it in poor taste to speak ill of the dead?"

He frowns. "That may be so but…I have certain investments which I believe you know nothing about—"

"Sir." Rosita raises her hand to silence him and he draws back.

"Cut the crap! What do you want? " I ask.

"Michonne—May I call you Michonne?" he asks.

"No."

"Great. Now Michonne," His grin grows wider, "if you could just keep an open mind—"

"How are you acquainted with your employee's little sister?" I interrupt. "Do you have any idea who that man was who killed her?"

Negan feigned disbelief. "What? Is that what you think? That we had something to do with that lunatic who stabbed Annabella right out in the streets? No."

"Because that was just stupid," I say.

"Correcto mundo!"

"Negan!" Rosita raises her voice and again he zips it as though she's yanked his leash. Her gaze locks with mine and I don't see a shred of sincerity. "We don't know anything about that."

I smirk and shake my head. "I don't believe that for a second. Why else am I here?"

"Now you cut the crap." She slaps the table and points and accusing finger in my face.

"Ssh, ssh, ssh. Calm down babe." Negan gently holds her hand but she pulls away. I glance at his wedding ring and recalls the info collected that yes, he's married, but Rosita is definitely not the name of his wife.

What the hell is going on? I take that as my cue to get myself out of there. "Whatever it is you're offering, not interested." I push my chair back, but Mr. Smiley pants sticks out his long leg blocking me.

"Don't be so rude darling," he drawls, and specifically not in a sexy way. We're only here to chit chat, come to an understanding. We're not monsters."

I hook my bag on my shoulder. "Sorry, I have someplace else to be."

"Like where? Your lawyer's house? Your Mother's? Or are you heading over to see Richie Rich your boyfriend? You know what I heard… Walsh junior is something of a play boy. No wonder things didn't run so smoothly between you two. Especially as he such a regular patron now over at Tulip's. Wonder how Papa Mayor feels about his progeny frequenting such a disreputable establishment?"

"You mean a whore house," Rosita pipes in.

"Watch your language Rosy."

Okay, so point taken. These two have done their home-work and this is a warning. I need to get to Rick now. "Whatever Shane does in his own time is his business." I push past Mr. Vincenzo's chair, but again he stops me by grabbing my wrist. I pull away and glare at him.

"What about Semaj Remodeling Services? Is that any of your business?" he says.

My eyes go wide at the mention of my mother's company.

"According to our statements on her business account…things don't look too great." Rosita says.

I grit my teeth. "What are you saying?"

"Just that they could be better, Michonne… or worse," she says, also rising to her feet squaring her shoulders at me. "That's entirely up to you. Think about it. We'll be in touch."

Slanting my body away from hers, I resist the overwhelming impulse to slam my fist into her smug face. Instead, I shove my way past this callous, unfeeling woman, not giving it a second thought as to what exactly I should do next.

-.-.-.-.-

Driving down Third Avenue with my posture rigid behind the wheel, I took a few calming breaths before dialing Rick's cell phone.

"Everything went okay?" he asks, as soon as he answered the call.

"I think you were right," I admit. "Actually you were. Should've let you come here with me." As I stop at the red lights at the corner of Greensburg, I decide to make a left for the central district, instead of a right which leads me back to the 'burbs of Burkeside. "Rick I can't return to your house. As a matter of fact, I'm driving straight to the police. You should meet me."

"Wait, just wait. What happened?" An instant panic colors his voice. "Come to my office first, I'm still here. You and I we'll talk, then if you still want we'll head over to the department together. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay." I lean my forehead against the steering wheel grateful for his support, but also uncertain about my choices from the past two weeks up until this point. "Give me fifteen minutes. I'll be there shortly." Just as I look up to the now green signal light my back door suddenly opens. My body jerks forward with acute fright causing my phone to drop from my hand to the floor. I shriek when in my rear view mirror a pair of dark, inhuman eyes under a baseball cap meet mine as a man slides into my back seat.

"Don't make a sound," he orders, shoving a cold pistol into the side of my neck, "Just do as I say and drive."

A coldness hits at my core and my entire body trembles. I nod at the recognizable intruder, whilst tipping the accelerator. Hoping and praying Rick was still on the line listening as I drive off with Annabella's murderer.


	9. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8**_

 _MICHONNE_

After driving for five minutes towards the borderline between Trinity Hills and Atlanta city, I am forced by my intruder to turn left onto Concord street. The steel barrel of his gun is no longer pressed into my neck, but jutting against the side of my ribcage. I wince, but I say nothing. As we cross over fourth, and then fifth avenue the moderately paced traffic starts to get thick, which is usual at this time of day when you're heading into the Central district. This guy is obviously not from around here. With adrenaline pumping through my blood vessels, my mind races over how I could take advantage of this particular ignorance. If I floor the accelerator I could take him by surprise and ram the car into the line of vehicles piling up in front of us. The sudden impact could give me the window I need to escape. Dangerous and desperate, I'm well aware, but frankly my choices are limited. Before I could dwell any further on this plan, a hand roughly grabs my shoulder and my passenger barks, "Turn left here."

I obey.

A combination of disbelief, fear, and rage storm my insides as my brain zeroes in on the singular question, " _Am I going to make it out of this mess unharmed and alive?"_

I try to stay focused, and not space out due to crippling fear. Be smart, Michonne. Be cool. Keep a level head. My hands grip the steering wheel as he orders me to make a few more seemingly random turns. Soon, I find myself parked in a secluded area hidden in a gap of some back alley.

The smell of sweat and cigarettes inundates my senses, and his heavy breathing in my ears fills me with disgust.

"Why are we here?" I murmur, despite my jack hammering heart.

"Shut up bitch." He grabs my neck and shoves me hard.

Demanding that I switch across to the passenger side, the killer then climbs up front into the driver seat. He has to push the chair back because damn, he really is tall just as I remembered. And angry. Dressed in all black, from his cap to his boots, only makes him appear that more lethal, especially as he's staring intensely at me with those merciless eyes. My stomach goes rock hard, but rage swells inside of me. My indignation, that's been kept at bay for over a week, from witnessing the ruthless, unprovoked killing of Annabella Espinosa at the hands of this man, flares through my entire being.

"I know you're not going to kill me," I say, in a quiet yet firm tone. "Not yet. So tell me what the hell do you want?"

"Didn't you hear what I just said? _Callate perra!_ Before I slam my fist into your face."

"You're pathetic you know that? To sit there and threaten me when I've done nothing wrong. You murdered a young, innocent girl in cold blood—"

"Innocent?!" An incredulous laugh bursts out of him. "That bitch? Nuh-uh, you really ain't know shit, chica. Lady, that girl set me up. Got me sent to the joint then disappeared with _my_ loot, with _my_ money. Wasn't gonna let her think she could disrespect me and get away with it. No way. It's a damn shame, you can't trust no bitches at all these days."

"So she knew she had it coming? She deserved it?" I hold my breath, banking on the slight possibility Rick was listening in on the conversation.

"If I had the chance, I'd cut her ass up again."

The muscles in my back go rigid. I could feel the tremors rake through my body, but the sensation doesn't hold me back. "And now her little girl is an orphan. Does she deserve that?"

A shadow of remorse, for a moment, softens the deathly stare in his eyes. But it was just for a moment, in the next second the look was gone. He cocks the gun and points the pistol to my forehead. Clearly he's had enough of my shit. "Listen here, and listen good chica. You really need to stop talking. Right this I splatter your brains all over this pretty car."

A cell phone suddenly rings off and I flinch. It's his. Keeping his weapon aimed at my face, he shovels the device out of his jeans pocket, glances at it, and tosses it in my lap.

"Answer the call," he commands in a gruff voice.

With a shaky hand I pick the phone up and peer at the screen. It's an unknown caller, but the ID of who's contacting this murderer is already obvious to me. I swipe the green icon after the fifth ring. "Yes?" I whisper.

"Miss Moretti... Like we said, we'd be in touch." Negan Vincenzo chuckles on the line confirming my suspicion that this killer showing up in my car wasn't a coincidence. "Now, here's the deal. No more pussy-footing around. Or else Mr. Velasquez there will not hesitate to put a bullet in your pretty head. Comprende?"

"He already said as much," I respond.

"Good. Do you know what it is I want from you?"

"The key."

"Yes, _my_ key. You have it, I want it. So where is it?"

"My lawyer has a safe. In his office. I'd have to call and collect it from him."

He releases a weary sigh over the phone. "That wouldn't be a problem, now would it? I don't want anyone else getting involved."

"No. No problem. He's discreet. Doesn't ask questions."

"Oh really? That's not what I heard. Alright," An unwilling resignation deepens his tone of voice,"set it up, but have him bring it to you. I'm giving you two hours... no wait, make that one. One hour. And don't get cute. As you already know, our shady friend there has a real short fuse."

An abrupt click signaled he ended the call.

I begin to speculate what precisely the connection is between this criminal—Mr. Velasquez—and Rosita and her boss. Is it a payoff? Did this "acquaintance" of Annabella's make a deal to cut Mr. Vincenzo a slice of the money stolen from him?

Whatever it is, my kidnapper quickly deduces two scenarios.

One: I can't meet my lawyer at the office, or anywhere out in the open without Mr. Velasquez being spotted. And two: he can't allow me out of the car on my own because chances are I'd make a run for it. More than likely, straight to the police.

Finally, he decides his best bet is to have the package delivered at my house. This situation just took a turn for the worse.

Not knowing Rick's number off hand I needed to get my phone. Shit. I take a chance. Mr. Velasquez follows my gaze as it slides down to the space between the pedals and his boots. Spotting my mobile, he leans over and picks it up. The screen is blank. Thank god. Rick must've ended the call, but when?

"You need this?" he asks.

I nod and he passes it to me in exchange for his own. As I dial, he holds up his gun shooting me a warning look. Yes, pun intended. No funny business. But it's too late for that.

"What happened?" Rick answers his phone right away. "Thought I heard a thud or something earlier, then nothing. Been waiting for you here. You okay?"

"Hey. It's me, Michonne Moretti. Sorry to bother you. I know you weren't expecting to hear from me this morning." Attempting to eliminate the fear from my voice, I keep my tone as casual and nonchalant as humanly possible under the circumstances. Yet, my greeting is laden with the implications that something is amiss.

For a few of seconds, the connection is thick with silence.

"Are you... okay?" The strain in Rick's voice when he finally speaks increases my tension and my facade breaks.

"Actually... no," I murmur.

"Shit!" He slams something and the boom echoes through the line causing me to jump.

I clutch the phone and feigned control I barely had. "Listen, Mr. Grimes, I need you to do me a quick favor. The envelope, the one I gave to you at the Dupont for safekeeping, please bring it to me. It's important I need it. As soon as possible. Preferably within an hour. You can bill me for the inconvenience."

Rick is quiet again, but I can hear his brain working. Trying not to panic, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, but only knowing that something had definitely gone wrong. He and I both know that the safe deposit key is for damn sure not in his office. I kept it to myself at his house cloaked and hidden inside of my luggage.

"Counsellor?"

"I'm here," he answers, his voice low and tense with anger. Sounds of shuffling movement, footsteps, the noises of telephones ringing and keyboards tapping are suddenly replaced by the urban tunes of outside.

"I know this is unexpected, and you're a very busy man, but please..."

"Where?"

"Home. You can find me at home." Mr. Velasquez nods his approval as I follow his script.

"Are they armed?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm sending Daryl ahead of me, he's already on the road, I'm on my way. Still interested in going to the police?"

"Yes, thank you." Mr. Velasquez narrows his eyes at me now as a reminder. "Oh, and Mr. Grimes? Ring the bell twice, then leave my package in the mailbox. I'd come out but my um, clothes they're dirty with the cleaning and repairing I'm getting done. And I prefer if-"

"No, Michonne. Don't be absurd!" Rick's voice rises betraying his anxiety. "How will I know if…"

If I'm dead? Think that's the general direction of this cockamamie plan.

"... if you're okay?" he says.

I bite my lower lip. "What are my options?"

"Tell her—them—that you have to sign and date for the receipt of your property. It's a legality so the firm doesn't get sued. Otherwise, it'll be suspicious. More than it already is."

"I'll try. One hour?"

"One hour... Hold tight babe, I'm coming to get you out of this."

-.-.-.-.-

Thirty minutes later, my kidnapper and I get to my house. Once inside, he tucks his pistol into the back of his waistband before helping himself to the twine he remembers spotting in my storage closet from his first "visit." With icy fingers, he binds my hands, sets me down on the sofa, and plants himself by the front window. There's no denying the taut lines in his expression as he peers outside. This dangerous man is agitated, and impatient.

Another ten minutes goes by. Mr. Velasquez now starts pacing the living room floor. Whilst mumbling incoherently to himself he eyes me with a murderous look. I refuse to cower, despite the steady stream of sweat that's running down the length of my back. I keep my gaze fixed on this criminal monitoring his slightest movements.

As I sit in obedient silence, I wonder what exactly Rick's planning. He only has a minute amount of details regarding the extent of my situation. On the other hand, I am certain he'll figure a way out. Since our reaquaintance, he's yet to let me down. Just as I glance at the clock, for the umpteenth time, a loud bang sounded from the side of my house startling us both.

Mr. Velasquez sneers at me. "What the hell was that?"

With wide eyes I give my head a quick shake. I'm just as surprised as he is. He snatches me by my wrists, hauls me to my feet, my heart starts pounding because in a second everything could go wrong. He whips out his weapon and sticks it into my back, shoving me forward towards the direction of the disturbance. But suddenly there's another clamor. And this time we both know it's coming from the basement.

My muscles at my shoulders tense at the cold death grip he places on my neck.

We shuffle to the cellar door and he orders me to open it. "For your sake I hope you got rats lady."

"Doesn't everyone?"

We were just about to descend the dark stairwell when from the hallway I hear a click.

"Police!" someone shouts before I could understand what is happening. "Drop your weapon, now!"

At that moment, a pair of hands emerge from the blackness and grab me forward. Then shots fire.

"Put your hands on your head. Get down on the ground, now!"

An all out brawl erupts from inside the house as an unknown person tightens their hold on me and hurries further down into the basement. Now standing in the streaming light from the window I can see it's a female officer.

"Are you hurt Ma'am?" she asks, calm and collected.

I can barely get a word out, so I simply nod.

Just then two more rounds go off. Followed by a heavy thud.

Bile rises to my throat as I hear footsteps from above, and groans of pain, and someone yells, "We got him."

I am both terrified and relieved. It's over.

* * *

 _RICK_

"You're sure you don't need me to go over this one more time?"

At my office, sitting next to me behind my desk, Michonne slumps into her chair taking in a deep weary breath. We've just wrapped up yet another session of thorough preparation for her upcoming trial testimony.

I clasp the hand resting on her skirted thigh and glide my thumb soothingly along her index finger. "You don't have to, babe," I say, "You got this. We've been over your statement a hundred times." The formal back and forth associated with giving a dry, concise recitation of an account at a deposition can be annoying, but Michonne's a trooper. It's impressive how she delivers her testimony in a manner that's both comfortable, and credible enough to sway any jury.

After that fateful day when Miss Annabella Espinosa's killer was shot and arrested at Michonne's residence, THPD went full steam ahead on their murder investigation. Accordingly, the facts revealed were that Mr. Rico Velasquez of Grove Park Atlanta, recently got released from jail two weeks before his arrival here in Trinity Hills. He'd just finished a two year stint for aggravated assault on a fellow gang banger. By his account, he'd had some "savings" which he entrusted to Annabella, his apparent girlfriend at the time. Only to discover, when he got out of the "big house" that she'd took off with his stash, and his daughter, whom he had very little concern about, without letting him know.

By the time he'd tracked his ex here to her hometown, he got involved with Rosita Espinosa who'd cut him a deal. Part of his stash included a few stolen diamond rings, averaging between half a million to two million dollars each. Annabella had negotiated with her sister and her sister's manager to store the jewellry without paperwork at the bank.

All things considered, the legal proceedings of hearings, documents, appearances, and pretrial meetings at the prosecutor's office over the past month have been hectic for Michonne, but she's handling the demands like a pro.

But then again, this is Michonne… my Michonne. And yes, I get to say that now. I mean we've been taking the change in the dynamics of our relationship one step at a time. Despite my compelling desire to be near her, to protect her, I don't push her. I've regained her trust, and that means more than anything.

When she moved back into her house Carl and I, together with her mother and her sisters, helped clean her place up. It took two days before Michonne felt at ease and resettled.

Expected in at work by eleven, Michonne rises and collects her bag to leave.

I walk her out to her car parked across the street. "Hey. Dinner? Tomorrow?"

She winces with regret. "I can't, sorry."

"Got a hot date?" I treat her to a teasing smile, earning me a sheepish grin. That girlish beam, however, quickly fades. Her expression now turns somber. "You got somewhere else to be?"

She nods. "Rain check? Maybe Monday?"

"Sure," I shrug, a bit disappointed that she'd be unavailable for the entire weekend. "I'll call."

She pulls me close by the lapels of my jacket and kisses me on my cheek. Michonne turns, opens her car door, but lingers before climbing into her seat. Has she changed her mind? I'd like that. I want to see more of her, alone in an intimate setting, especially now that the investigation is ending.

I place my left hand on her waist. "Everything alright?"

With a reserved calmness she meets my eyes and I catch a whisper of vulnerability. It takes a few seconds before she responds, and when she does she asks if my schedule will allow me to take tomorrow morning off.

"If you don't mind," she says, "I could use the company."

Although perplexed, I smile. Feeling like I've won some jackpot. Ridiculous, I know, but all the same her request pleases me. I lean forward tilting my head to the side. She follows suit, tilting her head in the opposite direction, and lightly our lips meet.

"Yeah," I whisper, "I'll make something work."

-.-.-.-

It takes Michonne ten minutes to make a purchase at Reggie's floral boutique. I sit in my parked car out front and watch as she comes traipsing out with a beautiful bouquet of white roses matching the simple white dress and flats she's wearing.

"Wow. Are these for me?" I ask as soon as she resettles in the passenger seat.

"No," she replies, a sad smile on her face.

Ever since I picked her up this morning Michonne has been withdrawn. She barely even exchanged much words with Carl on our way to drop him off at school.

I graze my fingers under the angle of her jaw to pacify whatever anxiety plagues her. "Michonne, where are we going today?"

She takes hold of my hand. "You know how to get to East Padua?"

"The tiny cemetary up North? I do."

She raises the flowers. "These are for Andre. Today's the seventh anniversary of his passing."

Her words knock the wind out of me. "Michonne…" I cup both sides of her face tilting her head up. "You should've told me." This whole week, probably from even before, she must've had this day at the forefront of her mind. Regardless of preparing for the trial.

Her mouth quivers as she presses her cheek into my palm. "I just did Rick."

Right. I remember she had no intention of even seeing me today, but she had a sudden change of heart. Sharing something this personal means she truly desires to deepen our connection. Gratitude expands in my chest, this isn't about me, I can't take this moment for granted.

The quiet drive to the burial ground was an hour long. I held her hand the whole way.

"I wish I was there for you when you had to go through this," I say, watching her kneel to rest the flowers next to her son's marble gravestone.

She remains on the grass and rocks back on her heels. "Thank you for being here with me now."

"Thank you for letting me in." I take a seat next to her. "Tell me about Andre."

A distant look shadows her face, but then she smiles and blinks away a slight sheen from her eyes. "His face made my heart sing," she says with pride.

My chest tightens at her emotional pain, and I nod my understanding. As a parent, such joy is easy to relate with.

"And I miss him so much." She releases a long breath followed by a strangled sob. I wrap my arm around her pulling her close.

"Seven years and I feel like that's all I do, is miss him. This loss has changed me Rick."

"How could it not?"

"At the hospital, I promised, over and over, that Mommy would make it better. I swore to him that he was going to get well again. My one job that really mattered, and I failed." Her lips pinch together and she shakes her head. Teardrops fall freely onto her lap. "You could never know what that pain is like. I'd give anything to go back."

"Is this why you chose to stay in Georgia? You wanted to stay close?"

She glances up with redden eyes. "Yes. It's not morbid, is it? I know he can't hear me, or help me. But I feel some sort of comfort knowing I could come and sit here at anytime, whenever I want. I mean— "

"People have urns with ashes on their mantle," I offer.

"Right. Exactly," she sighs, gazing into my eyes. I could feel her body relax, her tensions melting away.

"Ezekiel, he couldn't get that?"

"No. But what's worse? He had our child's bedroom like a shrine for an entire year. Living in that house… I could never step foot inside that room ever again."

"You ever went back?"

"I did. A couple of times. For my stuff, to meet with the lawyers... The last time I did actually open Andre's door, I ended up on my hands and knees crying, vomiting. Sick with unimaginable pain. Grief devoured me in a split second after I'd spent all those months forcing myself to get out of bed, to eat, to live, to feel anything but anger and sadness. Just one moment with his things—his toys, his clothes— and I fell to pieces like shattered glass.

"Zeke, he finally moved out though, a couple months after my last visit. Got remarried another year after that. Ended up falling for his new neighbor. A widow. She's nice. Gave him what he needed."

"You two met?"

"Carol? Just once. Wanted us to get to know each other." At that moment, Michonne glances at her watch. "We should go, it's almost time."

-.-.-.-

It's refreshing how vastly different the atmosphere at Michonne's childhood house is compared to the stillness at East Padua cemetery. As soon as we walked through Miss Beverly's front door, we were met with a hubbub of activity. The clanging of dishes, the banging of pots, hurried voices, and scurrying of little kids' feet. Not to mention the succulent aromas of a range of dishes welcoming us.

Michonne's Mother, who's also dressed in an all-white, flowing dress, appears from the entrance to the hallway. "Oh! Baby you're…" Her feet halt to a stop, however, when her eyes land on me. "Rick Jefferson Grimes? Well I'll be."

True, it's been twenty years since I've stepped foot inside her home, but I'm confused as to the extent of her bewilderment. It's not as if we haven't seen each other on several occasions since I've moved back to town, and especially since her daughter and I are once more in each other's lives.

Managing to offer up a smile through her noticeable shock, Miss Beverly Davidson-Moretti steps closer and cups my face.

"Good to see you again, Ma'am," I say, leaning forward to give her a peck on her cheek. "You're house smells amazing."

"Why thank you, young man. We've prepared all of Michonne's favorites." She holds my hands whilst glancing over to her firstborn. "This is a first, baby. Are you sure about this?"

Michonne nods. "I'm sure."

"Well… alrighty then." Miss Beverly grins. "I'll tell Rachael to arrange another setting."

Soon thereafter, I'm seated with a at the dining table. A generous spread of several dishes is laid out in front of me. With Michonne to my left, I quickly realize that other than her mother, her sisters, her niece, and her nephew, no one else is coming. It's a small and, more importantly, private gathering. Suddenly, I'm not so sure I belong.

As the matriarch of the family, Michonne's mom stands and starts us off with a prayer.

"We are present here today, to observe the memorial of the passing of our dearly beloved little Andre. Whose spark of life outed way too soon. Dear God we know he is safe in your memory as he is in all of our hearts, especially his mother's and his father's to whom he was a blessing."

"Yes, he was," her sister Fatima, the youngest, whispers in response.

"Thanks to the ransom sacrifice of the Christ," Miss Beverly continues, "we have the hope of seeing his sweet face once again, reunited together in peace, love, and abounding happiness. In the name of your son and our merciful Lord and savior Jesus, we offer this prayer. Amen."

"Amen," we all say.

I look over to Michonne. With her eyes still closed, fresh tears are now streaming down her grief-stricken face. Her mother leans over, kisses her temple, and whispers something in her ears.

Comforted, Michonne nods, opens her eyes, and lifts her gaze. "Thank you Mama."

I realize then that she's been gripping my hand so tightly, my fingers start to cramp. But it's okay. I pick up a napkin and dry away the dampness from her face. Grateful, a sincere smile cracks through her mournful expression. She then reaches across, swipes a finger along my jaw, and my heart skips a beat at the special light in her eyes. It's no longer a secret. I understand fully what that look signifies.

"Thank you," she whispers against my lips before brushing her mouth against mine.

"Hey, hey now," her mother pipes in, "There's young 'uns at the table." Her mother flashes a broad smile letting us know she's only teasing.

"Forgive me Ma'am," I reply, the tips of my ears burning. As I unfold my napkin placing it onto my lap, beneath the table I shift my leg pressing my knee against Michonne's. Her hand covertly slips down to my thigh and gives me a brief squeeze of assurance before she gets up.

Heartfelt embraces are exchanged among the three sisters, after which Michonne assists her mother with dishing out the food.

"Why Chonne always bringing home a white boy?" Rachael, the middle child, comments as she passes her mother the potato salad.

"Nuh-uh, don't go there Rachael," Fatima warns, shaking her head.

"What?" Rachael asked, looking slighted at the censure. "Ain't nothing wrong with that. I'm just saying the swirling must be sweet, like seriously. First Shady Shane, now Rambo Rick."

"Um excuse me," Unsure if I heard right, I squint one eye at the younger, splitting image of Miss Beverly. "What was that now? Rambo Rick?"

"Ignore her, she's crazy," Michonne says, shoveling green beans onto a plate.

"I'm creative," Rachael defends.

"You're childish!" her mother cries.

Rachael gives me an appeasing look. "I don't mean nothing by it, Rick. Nicknames are my thing."

"Being childish is your thing." Miss Beverly uncovers a dish of steamed fish with ginger. "And actually, you were too young to remember, but _first_ it was Rick, let me correct you on that. Not the other way round."

"Mom, enough," Michonne sighs, "Don't embarrass me."

"Oh please child, this is the joy of my life," her mother chuckles, "putting my girls on blast and on the spot. It's the gift that keeps on giving. Besides, I'm only speaking the truth."

"Amen," Rachael says, tucking a napkin inside her daughter's dress collar.

"Michonne, you know she does this all the time," Fatima says, pointing a fork in her big sister's direction. "At least you don't have to live with it."

Cocking her head to one side Miss Beverly glares across the table. "And neither do you if you get the hell up out of my god-damned house."

"Mom!" All three siblings raise their voices in unison, "Watch your language."

I burst out a roar of laughter, and the four women turn sheepish at their ridiculousness.

Michonne's attention switches to her five-year old niece and her two-year old nephew. Serving them their smaller sized portions whilst pausing to rub noses and share raspberry kisses. She's good with them, they adore her. No doubt she was an incredible mother. As I observe her movements, I decide not to allow her to serve me until she first fixes her own plate. And even then, as Ms. Beverly would say, I help my damn self. Today Michonne shouldn't even lift a finger. Next year, though, will be different.

-.-.-.-

"You've read all of these?" I ask, as Michonne descends her stairwell in a powder blue robe freshly showered.

She waltzes over to her bookshelf where I'm skimming through her extensive novel collection. "Mmm pretty much. Only a few are on my incomplete list. Couldn't hold my attention. Carl made it home okay?"

"Yeah. Got a ride with Patrick, and Reggie's over there with Mom keeping her company for the evening."

She curls her fingers around my forearm. "Rick… Thank you again, for today."

"There's no need. I should be thanking you. You're... amazing."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

She shakes her head in doubt.

I grip her arms and pull her to me. "If I had half your strength, my life would've been so much different."

She touches my chest, rubbing the material of my shirt against her fingertips. "Different how Rick?"

I swallow hard and allow myself for a brief moment to imagine the possibilities. If only I was brave enough to stand up to my tyrannical father. If only I had the courage to be real with myself and not follow my peers. If only I'd been bold to own up to my mistakes. Instead of concocting excuses and lies, poisoning my closest relationships.

As her hand settles, flattening against the steady thump-thumping of my heart, I hook my finger on her chin to raise her focus to my face. With no more words, or barely a second thought, I bring my lips close to hers and we share a soulful kiss. Warm. Firm. Appreciative. It feels so good because it feels right. Easy, comforting, with promises of forever. As our arms naturally encircle each other's bodies, a thick, hot sweetness spreads throughout my being. Michonne explores the contours and ridges of my back, while my tongue freely roams her decadent mouth. I tighten my hold. Probing deeper. Wanting to absorb this remarkable woman. I need to absorb her. With her selflessness, her consideration, her humble confidence. All evident in the proud way she moves regally to her own beat. My muscles strain around her waist as my desire grows to get closer. Close enough to dissolve in her. To revel in her energy, to have access to her strength and inner beauty.

Just then, she slowly withdraws her mouth from mine, but not far. Our lips linger over one another.

I sweep my knuckles over her cheek enjoying the privilege of knowing the softness of her skin. "I want you."

"Now?" she asks, with a quiet seriousness. The rapid rise and fall of her chest is unmistakable.

Shifting my position, my other hand falls away from her waist to sneak inside the opening of her robe. My fingers glide along the velvet skin between her bare thighs. Her heat is titillating. "Yeah, now."

"We talked about this."

I nod. "We did. But you want me too, don't you?" I rub my palm against the center seam of her shorts, and with a gasp she clutches my upper back. "Having you back in my life, I want that. For us to build something new together. What we were, I won't forget it because I can still feel it—that connection. It's this living, breathing force between us. Somehow we still fit, don't we?"

My thumb presses and circles her core. I feel her body tremble as her eyes fall close and her breaths become shallow. She tugs me forward. Slides her cheek against mine. Before nestling her face against my throat. Warm air caresses my skin, and I shiver.

"Yeah," she responds, "Somehow." Michonne reaches for my hand and we intertwine our fingers. "Then what's after?" Her voice is soft, vulnerable.

"After? We try to be more. We become more. You're my best friend, we'll figure it out."

She lifts her deep set eyes and stares at me. The uncertainty in her pained expression makes me swallow and take in a generous breath.I glance away. But her palm presses gently against my cheek.

"It's not you, it's me. This is… I don't know why, but this is hard for me," she confesses quietly.

"We should be together."

"But we would have to embrace so much."

I look down at her. "Our past?"

She nods.

"Then embrace it. Everything. Our connection brought us back here. I believe that. The good the bad... don't ignore it. But don't let it keep you from enjoying the now either." I promised myself not to push her but... "This feel so good, doesn't it?"

She breathes out a laugh. "Feels perfect." The distance created between our bodies as she steps back, ignites, for a moment, a sense of disappointment. But with our hands still clasped together, Michonne guides me towards her corridor. "Let's go upstairs."

-.-.-.-


	10. Chapter 9

**_-.-.-.-_**

 _ **Chapter**_

 _ **Nine**_

 _RICK_

By the time I reclaim Michonne's lips with mine, her response is avid—deep, revealing. Side by side, in between her cool, linen, white sheets, my own need sends my blood coursing through every vein of my body. As I cup her head encouraging her to turn into my embrace, her fingers caress my neck and travel lower to the center of my bare torso. She slips her arms under mine, curling around to my back and draws me again on top of her. I pause, bracing on my forearms as we exchange a peaceful smile with each other. The understanding that this is more than just physical, is unuttered but present. More than dipping into the sea of desire, this is us submerging in life-altering need made genuine due to implicit trust.

I kiss her again slowly. My tongue prods and encourages her with gentle, yet firm strokes to widen the opening of her mouth. Michonne cradles my hips between her thighs, and my mouth moves towards her slender neck. Nibbling and teasing, as my hands explore, grope, fondle and enjoy her enticing physique. Her tender whispers in my ear signal she wants more. I hear her, but what I want is to take my time. She lifts her back, pushing against my chest.

In response, I gently nudge her down. "Wait."

"Nooo," she groans.

Her impatience elicits a rumbling chuckle. "What's the rush? We got time."

"You wanna make me happy?"

My head tilts. "Of course."

"Then get in there and stop driving me crazy."

I grin even wider. Yes, I wasted no time with removing all barriers of clothing between us, but hell she's ruining my plans to make love to her all night. "Bossy much."

"Sometimes a girl's gotta take charge." Her finger traces a seductive line along my lower lip. "Particularly when she's in-love."

Damn. Right to the heart. "You play dirty." She snickers. "Alright, you ready?" I hook my hand under her knee. Lifting her leg, I place light kisses and tender bites along her inner thighs. I could feel the tremors roll through her body as I don't hesitate, and hold nothing back. Eager, she circles her hips to meet my movements, the sensation of gaining deeper access is electrical. Fingertips massage my shoulders before finding their way through my hair. Due to the anticipation and foreplay, it doesn't take long for me to push her to her breaking point. As a matter of fact, I'm not far behind.

My mouth once again caresses the side of her face, her neck, and her chest as she rides out the wave before I finally collapse next to her.

"How was that?"

That was…" she pants, "... I can't even... catch my breath. That's how it was."

I give her a breathless laugh, allowing my fingers to intertwine with hers. "Yeah, same. Amazing." Intrinsically satisfying.

"Seriously." She turns into me and snuggles against my side. My arm readily encases her warm body, reclaiming this gem of a woman.

"Promise me it'll always be like this. That we'll always have this," she whispers after awhile.

By this, she means the comforting closeness, the fierce attachment.

It's a promise I am ready and willing to make.

"Come over to my house for dinner tomorrow," I say. "I'll get you a bottle of wine, and Carl would love to go a few rounds of darts afterwards."

"Oh... so sorry. But I don't play darts." Her body vibrates with giggles.

"You don't or you can't?"

She pinches my hip.

"Hey," I laugh, twisting my body away from her sharp grip, "no shame in not being exceptional at everything."

"Mmhmm."

"Don't worry, I'm a very good teacher. My knee won't be a problem."

She lifts her head to meet my gaze, resting her chin on top of my chest. Despite the shadows cloaking the room, there is a hesitant solemnity behind her eyes.

"What?" I ask. "What's wrong?"

"That time after your injury... you know you didn't have to lie."

For a moment I am speechless. My rib cage becomes weighted with her words, struck by their bluntness. I swallow hard, pressing my finger and thumb against my eyelids before I give her the just-as-honest answer she deserves. "Yeah I… I know that. Was a stupid, selfish kid back then with my head straight up my ass. I swear to god that was me at my lowest. For a long time, Michonne, I was so ashamed. But even after everything with us, I knew that you'd be there. Like you always had. That's why I called my best friend. I—I didn't want anyone else to see me like that. I lied to you because I needed only you. But that's no excuse, I know. Everything was a mistake."

Michonne looks at me thoughtfully, trying to understand my reasoning. She'd mentioned once how I'd even turned mean afterwards. Why? That question ran through my mind a million different times whenever I thought back to the countless phone calls, and texts she'd sent reaching out to me. Checking up on me. But I was cold and distant. It would be years before I could acknowledge that my behavior was a result of my feeling acutely embarrassed. I shouldn't have allowed my life, my actions to come to such a low point. To have Michonne compromise her integrity on my behalf.

"Trust me," I say, "I'm gonna do all that I can to earn your forgiveness."

"Well…" she smirks, "More of this is a start."

My hand slides from her waist to her hip. "You'll think of other ways?"

She giggles, covers her mouth with the sheet. "Lots." She inches up my chest and plants a firm kiss on my mouth. "I was young and stupid too. I've made mistakes too. Should've been honest about how I felt a long time before then." Still, a look of concern descends upon her features. "Did marrying Lori help you to get through it?" she asks, after a moment of reserved uncertainty.

I glimpse away. Under her scrutinizing gaze, the temptation to dismiss this topic of discussion for another time, another place, is overwhelming.

Michonne senses my discomfort and lightly taps my chin for my attention. "Embrace our past—All of it. You said that."

I nod.

"So… help me out. I'm just trying to make sense of who you are."

I sigh deeply, staring at her face, thinking how pretty her eyes look under the dim lighting. Appreciating the honesty of her interest. Despite my flaws, despite the disappointments, Michonne still trusts me. Still makes me feel that I'm worth a damn. Not like my father who left me to fend for himself, not like Lori who'd expected me to live up to _her_ idea of a perfect husband. Again, it's not an excuse to mess up, no, far from... but it's been a long time since I've had this gift—this freedom to just be the best version of myself. And not bend and twist to fit the perception of what others think.

"Marrying Lori was a business arrangement. Lori's father was old money, you remember? Him and my dad, and even their dads, go way back. That's part of why Lori and I usually got back together—to keep up appearances. That's the advantage. When I lost my scholarship, Dad and I were on the outs, so Lori got her old man to pay my tuition. His one stipulation was us following through on tradition. Means to an end. That's how we got engaged. Love and a contract. I had hoped to have both with Lori."

She sits upright, props her elbow on her knee with her fist pressed against her cheek. "You didn't?"

"For a while, yeah, I thought I did. I earnestly tried to. But none of that would have happened if I had you. But we can't know that now, can we?"

"No, we can't," she says quietly. "I was scared, unprepared. I never expected for you to really feel the same way about me. It was like…" she chuckles, more to herself, "…like waiting for a star to fall."

"I love you Michonne. Always. I've loved you for a lifetime. I promise I'm gonna love you forever." My hand strokes her hair. "Do you still love me?"

A sly smile curls her lips. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Then okay."

"That's it?" she laughs, "Just okay?"

I shrug.

"Then, okay... I still love you too."

My arm hauls her back to my chest. "Good. Now how soon are you gonna move back into my house?"

* * *

 _MICHONNE_

 **11 months later.**

If Mom and Rick's mom had their way, we'd be standing at the altar of First Ministry Baptist Church today for our wedding ceremony. Despite our mothers' well-meaning protests, my fiancé and I have opted to gather with our family and friends outside on the lush green landscape beside Lake Woodson. Situated under a wooden arch adorned with luscious hydrangeas, eucalyptus, and white lilies, Rick and I are gifted with a spectacular sky filled with sunshine glittering off the gently lapping waves of the water. The perfect setting for our new beginning.

Suddenly, a warm breeze with whispers of a hot summer just ahead, brushes the nape of my neck and rustles the skirt of my lace, floor length wedding dress. My hand shoots up to secure the gardenias Fatima arranged in my hair, whilst managing to maintain my poise.

Right now Pastor Gabriel Stokes is giving a beautiful sermon. Well... I'm sure he is. But hell I can hardly hear a word he says. Rick is so devastatingly handsome in that crisp grey suit, with his tie and pocket square matching the hue of my sheath, champagne-colored gown. My heart soars as I stare at my future husband. And although we haven't said 'I do' as yet, I feel my _spirit_ is already linked to this man's. It's all surreal. Standing here, I never would've imagined my life coming to this moment. But I'm glad that it has.

As a matter of fact, I can't stop grinning.

Trying my best not to so much as fidget, both of my hands grip my bouquet in an effort to control the waves in my stomach. Carl, on the other hand, who's positioned between us with the rings, hasn't been able to keep his narrow pooch quiet. Not for a single second since the ceremony started. His constant wiggling is a distraction. Poor thing. He really can't stand wearing a full three-piece suit. But his father, who is cool as a cucumber, promised the teen he could peel away the layers once our pictures have been taken.

For a moment, I dare to peek across at the intimate gathering of our loved ones; sitting in attendance on folding garden chairs, their faces reflect what's in my heart—pure, unadulterated joy. It nearly brings me to tears. This love is a gift to be celebrated.

Someone nudges my elbow. It's Pastor Stokes.

"And now," he says, "we'll hear from the lovely couple their written vows."

Oh, that's my cue. Right. Here we go. Rick's face turns red.

I take a deep breath, and I say, "Exchanging personal vows at first seemed to be a great idea, but it turned out to be a lot harder than I thought and I got stuck. I didn't know what exactly I wanted to say. So, Pastor Stokes asked me how did I know that this was genuine love, and well this is what I came up with."

I pause.

 _J_ _ust breathe Michonne._

"Rick, growing up I was always unsettled—With school, with my family, my friends—and for a long time I never felt at ease even in my own skin. The day that I met you was the day that I fell for you." Blushing, I look out to our chuckling guests. "Yes, embarrassing, but it's true." I look back at Rick. "But _knowing_ that I was in-love with you happened after some time. When I suddenly realized I no longer had that unsettling feeling, gnawing in the pit of my stomach. I don't know how but... I was just happy. And content and calm and… you weren't mine but I treasured the way you brought peace to my heart."

Someone is sniffling in the crowd.

I clutch my bouquet tighter. Oh god, please don't let me start crying. This make-up took too damn long and cost too much money to ruin before my pictures. I collect myself, clear my throat, and continue. "Just your smile alone in my dreams, and I'd wake up happy. It's the same now. And it's the best way to start the day. Because of everything we've been through, Rick sweetie, I understand you. I understand your sins, I understand your heart, and I love you."

Now Rick wells up with tears. He leans in and kisses me.

Gabriel yanks him back. "Hey! Hold on now. We haven't gotten to that part just yet."

More laughs and a hoot and a whistle erupt from our beautiful, beaming guests.

"Well, if that's not love," Gabriel says, "then what is? That was beautiful Michonne. Now let's hear from the groom."

Rick takes a moment, and lowers his head. After thumbing away the water from the corner of his eyes, he begins. "Love… is supposed to make you better, not worse. To have real love... you gotta fight for it. But still be kind, yeah?"

With a knowing giggle, I nod.

"Having real love, well to me it means showing your strength on behalf of those for whom you care about and not using it against them. To build them up and not to tear them down. Love means acceptance." He squeezes my hand. "I accept you, Michonne. I accept my responsibilities to you—as a man, as a husband, and as a friend."

"Hallelujah!" someone shouts out. Is that Rachael? It sure sounded like Rachael. A few 'Amens' follow and I am grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

Rick gives me a nervous smile. He looks a little lost. I mouth 'Go on,' for him to finish up.

He clears his throat. "To help you deal with the pressures and the doubts you're certain to face along the way, would be my honor babe. And I would do so, not begrudgingly, but earnestly, and with insurmountable pride because I want to make you happy. I want to give you the world. Thank you for marrying me, for saying yes. I'm so happy to have you as my wife."

Pastor Stokes raises his hands in the air. "Can I get an Amen?"

"Amen!" Comes the automatic response from our people. They are eating this up. I half expected a few to break out in applause too soon.

With Carl's help, Rick and I then exchange rings as we make heartfelt promises to remain united til death do us part.

"By the power vested in me…" Before Stokes has a chance to complete his pronouncement, Rick's arms are hooked around my waist.

"... by God and man…"

His hands are snaking up my back.

"... and by the State of Georgia…"

Drawing me close to seal his mouth against mine in a searing kiss.

"... I hereby pronounce you husband and wife."

With camera flashes and a standing ovation, one by one our guests hug us, congratulate us, telling us they're so proud that we've made it. But the truth is, with Rick's hand protectively covering our secret in my tummy, we've only just begun.

THE

END.

 **A/N:** That's it for me folks. Thanks once again, for spending time with this story. I hope you were entertained. Enjoy Season 9 as much as possible despite the impending loss of our leading man. This is the best Fandom and I am so glad to have been a part of it. Thank you.


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